


From This Day, Until My Last Day

by DariusAndElusive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A song with gay dragons, A wedding with knights and kilts, Angst, Banter, Battles of the field and battles of the heart, Both are a mess at relationships, Canon Universe, Complete, Dark Past, Dirty Jokes, Epic Battles, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Goodbyes, Grey Wind is badass, Historical Fantasy, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mild Smut, Robb Stark is King in the North, Robb and Theon face their greatest enemy: Themselves, Robb and Theon have daddy issues, Robb is a strategist, Robb is serious, Teen!Robb has a crush on Theon, Teen!Theon has a boner for Robb, The world splits them apart, Theon is a hothead, Theon is cocky, a bittersweet ending, but cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 06:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18462947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DariusAndElusive/pseuds/DariusAndElusive
Summary: “You believe that love is magical?” asks Robb hesitantly.“No. but something stronger than what witches and warlocks practice. A human’s strength lies in their spirit and will to live, and nothing influences it more than love.”------There aren't many fanfics set in the canon universe, are there? So I though I will take a crack at it. This story is set between Episodes One and Two of Season Two, if you are fond of fluff and angst, jokes and smut, and all things great in Game of Thrones, this story might be right up your alley. I fell absolutely in love with the dynamic they managed to build between Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy. What drew me to them was the fact they were growing up as men in a very violent and masculine world, both have baggage with their fathers, and their contrasting personalities blend together in intriguing ways.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, Reader!
> 
> This story is set between Season Two episodes One and Two. It starts after the scene where Robb confronts Jamie Lannister, while the latter is a prisoner at his camp, and Robb delivers the infamous "You insult yourself, Kingslayer!" line. It ends with Theon departing for the iron islands to recruit and rally his Father's forces into the war on Robb's side.
> 
> Chapter one starts on the night Robb visits Jamie.

A tense hush lies besides soldiers in the sleeping campsite, where the army is stationed for the night. An incomplete moon hangs low in a blue dome tired of skyward wails from the day’s battle and throws its pale silvery luminescence over a ground soaked in blood. The heavy thumps of thick leather boots thuds like thunder over the grass as a brooding young man makes his way over to his tent. His fur cloak swishes by like a shadow in motion, as if hiding a dozen secrets underneath. The moonlight glints on the cold brass of the scabbard hanging off his hips. Powerful puffs of breath echo through a wide chest that tapers down to a slim waist. His broad shoulders are bowed in fear, shame, confusion, or a combination of all three. He glides through the slumbering tents dotted with fire pits to keep the darkness out and heat in, beneath the watchtowers keeping vigil against enemies that seem to crowd in from all directions. The baying of wolves can be heard on the reluctant breeze breaking through the battle defences. The Direwolf trotting by the man’s heels growls in the direction of the noise, but keeps to his faithful path at the side of his master. A guardsman resting as still as death at his post sees the familiar commanding silhouette approaching, and stands at attention with a click of his heels. “King of the North,” he says respectfully under his breath as the royal figure walks past. 

Robb Stark approaches his tent with a tentative air. Any other king, for there are several in the land now, would have demanded a colossal affair of fabric and banners and carpets, but not he. The North bred hardy men in its harsh vales and mountains and woods, and those born of Stark blood knew to value a simple honest purposeful life over one that is laden with luxury and excess.

“Settle down, Grey Wind!” he whispers in his deep lilting baritone. He smiles for a brief second as he fondles the creature’s muzzle, its tail wagging up a storm. He snaps his fingers, and it immediately settles across the entrance. The frown returns, and Robb steps into his tent. 

He dismisses his squire, wanting to be left alone tonight. The spotted faced lad looks hardly older than a boy holding on to his mother’s apron strings, though not much younger than Robb himself. He scurries out with a muttered good night, squeezes out past the growling wolf and runs off into the gloom, hoping there is food still left in the mess hall. Grey Wind rests its head on the ground once more, an impenetrable defence against anyone who dares approach the King’s tent. 

Robb sighs deeply and hangs up his sword and helm. He rethinks, and places the sword by his pillow. Carelessly, he shrugs off his cloak, which falls with a slight rustle, and strips himself of his garments until he stands only in his trousers. He pauses for a moment in front of a mirror glazed with discolouration, and thumbs a battle scar standing out in the soft pink flesh over his clavicle, hissing in pain. He tumbles in to bed, and no sooner did his weary head fall onto the rough texture of his pillow, he is transported in the arms of a dream to the land of sleep. 

It is a dream recurring too often for his liking.

They began the day he captured Jamie Lannister. 

Robb’s eyes shoot open in the velvety darkness, his mouth frozen in a cry of horror. 

He had thought the wisest way to kill these unwelcome thoughts at its root was to confront the disgusting prisoner himself. So, armed with a torch of fire, he had headed to the Lannister’s holding cell earlier that night. Limp blond hair matted with mud, once golden finery caked with dirt, posture broken with days of stagnant captivity; he still had the audacity to look up with the customary smirk that was said to charm anyone who crossed his path. His witty tongue was ready with insults aimed with arrow -like precision to hurt him at his weakest spots. Anger at the death of his father and crippling of his brother filled Robb with more strength than he knew and his words lashed out with unfailing bravado. But it was all an act, as Lannister’s opening words had shook him to the core. His low purr of a voice still fills Robb’s head: “Have you grown fond of me, Stark, is that it? Never seen you with a girl.” Robb feels that he had handled the situation with greater dignity than he could have expected, summoning Grey Wind to put the snivelling coward in his place and silencing Lannister with his own game of tongues.

But, you see, the dreams plaguing Robb involved a different game of tongues. 

He knows the wave of lust that had attacked him when he first laid eyes on Jamie Lannister form was nothing more than a fleeting rush of blood in his ears and groin. Maybe it was spurred on by the burning hate he had for the merciless man, and hate turns to lust as easy as the flip of a coin. There is nothing substantial in this sudden longing, besides the hormones of a virile young man upon seeing another handsome figure of his own sex. Well, not always, but this has always been the case with a certain Robb Stark, and it is a secret he guards closely. Except there is someone else who knew, or knew it as well as he possibly could, given that it was something they hardly talked of anymore. Robb wonders if this recent crush on Jamie Lannister is the result of unrequited love from the man he truly did have strong intimate affections for. Robb is stubborn, and was known for it as a little boy when he held onto his tiny wooden sword against bigger boys. He worries that if he did not get what he wants – or who he wants, rather – he might do something dastardly that would besmirch his polished reputation as the King of the North. Sure, he can order a soldier boy to be sent to his tent, no one will blink an eye. But tongues will wag, and enemies look at him through slit eyes. His dead father would be ashamed of him. Worse, that is not what he wants. He does not have an itch to scratch. It was something more. No one seeing Robb for the first time will pin him for a romantic, but he hides his inner thought in deep still waters beneath a noble mien and calculated expression. Every ruler had his or her secrets, and so did Robb.

The man who haunts his thoughts is probably snoring in bed, whistling a drunken tune, or - and it made Robb sick to think of it - thrusting in the open legs of a whore.

As it often does when Robb gets lost in one his moody reveries, he remembers what he had told him.

"My sword is yours, in victory and defeat, from this day until my last day."

That sentence, so commonly uttered by countless men swearing fealty to their King, takes special meaning in his ears. More so to do with the man who said it, with his rakish lopsided grin, messy hair the colour of straw and eyes lit with mischief and thrill for adventure. His devil may care attitude and cocky voice and easy-going manners bellied the hurt and frightened man underneath, the side of him that only Robb knows. For he is only one who he is close enough to share secrets with, share dreams with and call each other brother. 

Robb strikes his hand down next him in frustration, forgetting that his sword lay there. He winces in pain, and sees the gleam of blood in the sliver of moonlight pouring in through the tent flap. Cursing at his own stupidity, he sits up and inspects the wound. Thankfully, it is a mere skin wound on his little finger, and will be healed come the morrow. 

A low growl rumbles from outside, the canvas shifts and a tousled head pokes into the room. “Is everything alright in there?”

It is Theon Greyjoy, the man that made his head, heart and cock ache every waking and sleeping hour of the day and night. 

“Nothing you should worry about, Theon.” Robb grunts and holds out his hand. “Just a careless nick by my blade.”

“Been fondling your sword too much, your Grace?” asks Theon with a chuckle, coming in.

“I should have you hanged by your saucy tongue!” Robb cannot help but laugh too, the pain in his finger forgotten. “And you don’t have to call me ‘Your Grace’ when we are alone, especially not when you’re making jokes only fit for a back alley tavern!”

“I know you have a special spot for me now, Your Grace, but once you get a big golden crown on that noggin of yours, I will be kicked to the dust.” He crouches before the bed. “Let us take a look.” He takes Robb’s hand in his and twists it this way and that, staring intensely.

“Do you really think I would do that to an old… friend?” asks Robb. 

“I was joking, O Most Benevolent One,” teases Theon, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I know you better than to turn your back on a brother at arms. We better wrap your finger up, it might get infected.”

“I will be okay.”

“No, you stubborn mule, we do not want a King with only nine fingers! What would the superstitious old crones say?” Theon leans over to Robb’s shaving bowl and pours water in. He takes up a rag, soaks it, and wipes away the blood.

“You don’t have to take care of me, Theon. I will call in a nurse if you insist I bandage it.”

“I vowed to serve you, didn’t I? If that means nursing you, so be it.”

Robb turns away to hide his blush under his beard, and tries not to smile at Theon’s clumsy attempts at cleaning the wound, and he is soon done. 

“Got any wine or beer to staunch the cut?” he asks. “Or is the Good King too pure to have the devil’s brew in his tent?”

“Um… I do not have any at the moment,” says Robb. How does Theon always manage to make him feel like a silly boy with a wispy hair on his chin? Or is it that he let Theon have power over him, in a way he never let any man or woman do? He adds steel to his voice and continues, “I will not become a debouched king drunk on the throne he swore to protect. Like the one that my father was the Hand to, which lead him to lose his head.”

“Oh, the angels weep when your bare foot ouches the ground, you martyr!” says Theon. “I better not darken your tent again with my foul presence. But then who will treat your poor little finger? Well, spit’s good as any medicine.” Before Robb has time to react, Theon slides in his finger whole in to his wet mouth, and gently runs his tongue over the throbbing wound. Robb gasps as he withdraws. 

Theon looks around for some clean cloth to wrap the wound in, and shakes his head. “Tut-tut. You are ill prepared to face even the smallest blister of an injury. What on Earth will you do without me?” He pulls out an embroidered silk handkerchief from his pocket. “This will do!” He tears off a strip with his teeth and ties it around the finger, surprisingly neat. 

“Thank you, Theon.” Robb’s eyes shine with gratitude. 

“Thank me when the war is done and we can return home.”

“To Winterfell?”

“Aye, with you as my one true King.” Theon gets up and heads to the tent flap, framed against the moonlight. “Will that be all?”

Robb nods.

“Good night, Your Grace.”

He disappears.

“Wait!”

Theon ducks back in. “Apologies, Your Grace, I thought I was dismissed.”

“A moment of your time.” Robb pats the blanket next to him. Theon stumbles in and sits down, nervous. 

“Am I in trouble? I do not like the look in your eye. Was there a raven? News of the girls? Of the enemy camp? Tell me what to do, your wish is my command!” His hand grasps the hilt of his sword.

Robb laughs heartily. “Calm down, brother, do. You are too eager to leap up and fight. There is no ill news on my mind, not yet at least.”

“That is a relief. We have been having a streak of victories, it is bound to fall short.”

“Do not sour my mood! The well of luck has been kind to us.”

“And it will freeze over, as all wells do when winter comes.”

“You are as much a worrywart as the village hag. Summer still lingers, with all the pleasures of the sun drenched land.”

Silence stretches them like an icicle forming off the bough of a dead tree. Robb wishes he could lean against Theon, put his arm around him, hold his hand, anything to form a connection, gain comfort in what way he can. He dare not appear weak with anyone else. As he does with all his troubles, he pushes them down with vehemence, and changes the topic. 

Robb wags his finger in Theon’s face. “This handkerchief, where did you get it? I’ll be damned if something so pretty and delicate belongs to a brute like you. What foreign whore are you bedding?”

Theon punches his shoulder with a snort. “Why, jealous?”

Robb shoves him back. He is jealous, but of the whore, not Theon.

“She is wild over me, swore she will be mine for as long as I want. Gave me this as a present, the silly airhead. Only if she was fine as this down where it matters!” 

“And yet you gave me the handkerchief?” Robb hates himself for sounding like a smitten girl. Why is woeful unrequited yearning the cruellest of tortures that can afflict a man? He is scourge of weaker forces in the battlefield, armies trembled upon hearing his name, and his voice is the final vote at all debates at the war council. He had grown and strengthened his reputation that preceded him in awed voices. Yet, tonight within four clothed walls and besides a man who knew him better than he did himself, he is as helpless as a new born babe left out in the mercy of the harsh elements.

Theon shrugs. “Did not think about it too much. There was nothing else to use.”

“So, you attached no value to the handkerchief at all?”

Theon frowns. “Where are all these questions coming from?”

Robb dismisses the question with a swipe of his hand. “Does not matter. We have larger concerns to worry about.”

“I am worried about you.” Theon ruffles Robb’s hair, the only one besides his mother who dares to do so. 

“Many people are.” Robb picks at a fingernail.

“They are worried that they do not have a figurehead on a throne who would pour coins in their pockets.” Theon slumps back across the bed and puts his hands behind his head.

Robb hesitates for a cautious second, and lies down beside him. “And why are you worried about me?”

Theon bites his lower lip. It seems as if he has something to say. “I’m worried because you are worried,” he says very seriously. Theon turns on his side, and as if by magic Robb turns to face him as well. Their eyes lock, bright blue against faded grey. Theon’s lips part, then snap shut. He rolls back onto his back and sits up.

He coughs. “And you know what they say… there are three things that cures a man with a touch of the blues. First is drinking, but there is no alcohol here. Second, killing. I will lay down my life for you, but not to be felled by your own hand, and third…” his voice drops a pitch as his breath wafts through the cold night air. “Fucking.”

Robb stares at his muscled back, dumbfounded.

Theon stretches and flexes his arms, as if teasing Robb. What game was he playing? 

“That hussy who gave me the handkerchief… she has a cousin with her, a good clean untouched girl, fit for a king. I can bring her over.” Theon gives a bawdy wink over his shoulder.

Robb will be less hurt if Theon had stabbed him through his heart. He shook his head. “I do not have the time for that. I have a war to helm, and I need my rest. Only the gods know when I may sleep easy again.”

“I have not seen you with a girl for a long time,” Theon leans back on one elbow, eyebrow rising questioningly. “Not since last year at the Festival of Ceres. But you weren’t with a girl then, were you?”

Robb closes his eyes trying to block the bittersweet memories washing over him. Can the strongest mortar and stone dam a raging torrent? Can even a line of Weirwood Trees stop an icy avalanche? Can the shouts of a madman stop the sea’s steady beat on the shore? No. Thoughts are a wonderfully bizarre force that may only be corralled by the most peaceful of minds. Robb, no matter of his valour on the battlefield and sharpness at the strategy board, is still a slave to thoughts, and nostalgia tucks him in her wing and flies him through the days past to one moment that would change his life forever: The Festival of Ceres.

\------

Theon’s worry lined face swims into view. He slaps Robb’s cheeks urgently, “Your Grace! Wake up!” 

Robb sits up, coughing. He rubs his forehead and groans. “I am well. It was an attack of memories.” 

“You might be a wise King, but you sometimes say the stupidest drivel. Memories cannot attack.”

“They can if they remind you of past hurt.”

“Do you still remember?” Theon asks, his voice hesitant. “I thought you forgot.”

“How can I ever forget? It is buried in my mind like a maggot in a hunk of wormwood.”

“Maggots are best rooted out before it is too late to save the wood,” says Theon in a sulky tone. “You were the one who cast me aside like a bloodied gauntlet.”

Robb hangs his head. “You do not have to re-narrate events etched in my mind with fire. You were impatient -”

Theon grabs Robb’s neck in a chokehold. “Do not dare call me impatient. I was there waiting for you!” Robb’s eyes roll back as he tries to pry off the fingers. Theon’s eyes lose their heat when he comes to his senses, and releases his hold on Robb and backs away, tripping over Robb’s discarded boots. “My humblest apologies, Your Grace.” He kneels on one leg at Robb’s feet. “I am unworthy of laying a finger on you, and broken my oath by harming you.” He bows his head in shame. “I will bear whatever punishment you see fit for me.”

Robb gingerly strokes his smarting throat. He looks down at Theon’s bowed head. Righteous rage hammers through his veins. How dare he accost the King? His fist tightens into a tight ball of anger. But instead of striking Theon, he lifts up his chin and looks into the man’s downcast eyes, and holds his unsteady gaze. Robb kneels down in front of the smaller man and grips his shoulders. 

“I forgive you.” 

“I do not deserve your pardon.”

“True. But I strangle myself every day for what I have done. And how could I not forgive you if we are equal in crime against the King?”

“Methinks the King has found his kink.”

Robb laughs mirthlessly. “How would I know, untutored as I am in that arena?” He lets go of Theon. “You have it easy.”

“How so?” Theon sits back in his heels. 

Robb looks pensive, the glow from a distant fire pit colouring his face in a warm hue. “You have your choice of bedding anyone who walks. You can stand cloaked in magnificence at a War Council in the morning and rough house with tipsy soldiers the same evening. You have the same stature I am received with, but the freedom to do as you please. My hands are tied. All I am is to be seen by a thousand judging eyes. I must be the shining beacon of decorum, tradition and the family name in my Father's stead and the Bannermen’s bonds. Even if I let myself feel for you in the smallest ember buried in my heart, I cannot nurture that flame. I have a mask to wear in the public eye, and I am no snivelling coward, but a practical man. I cannot let rumours and scorn and disgust threaten me like they do Lord Renly Baratheon. And I cannot let more harm come to you than that you encounter in the battlefield. Sneaky men may be my enemy, but foul assaulters will be yours. And… I do not need to give them another reason to affect me through you.” He took Theon’s hand in his and raises it to his head. Theon runs his calloused fingers through soft dark brown curls. “There might not yet be a crown on my head,” whispers Robb. “But I already feel its weight.” 

Theon brushes Robb’s hair back. “You do not have to wear it with only me around.” He frowns and turns away, a patch of moonlight oiling his features in unearthly reflections. “That is a lie. That circle of metal will always be on your head till the day you die, only growing tighter with each passing year. Even if you only live long enough to see one moon cycle come to a close” Theon laughs at his own grim joke. “When we were boys together, we were equals playing at make belief battles with dragons. Then you declared war, and we became men. You rose to Kingship, and me your right hand man. You will always be one foot ahead of me.” Theon does not meet Robb’s eyes, focusing instead on the air above his hair. “That band of silver will always be tween us. If I have freedom, you have power. If any man insults you, you can see his head on a pike and the air will fill with cheers. They tolerate me in your presence, but if I am caught alone in a darkened corridor those who look down on a hostage of war will not hesitate to stab me between the shoulder blades. I am no man of mind tricks. These hands have not failed me yet, and as long as I have my strength in my fingers, they will continue to protect me.”

Robb involuntarily reaches out to clasp Theon’s hands but he retracts them behind his back. 

“There might have been a time when I would have loved you mind and heart and body freely with my own, but that time is long gone.” Theon stands up and gazes down at the pitiful man crumpled on the ground. “You must fight the battle in your world, and me in mine. I will love you with my mind and sword and oath, nothing more.” He turns and heads to the tent flap for the second time that night.

“Theon.”

Not a ruthless command impossible to disobey, not a cajoling plea to make him change his mind. Just a simple utterance of a name escaped from the lips of a man who held it dear and near to his heart. A statement, more than a question. 

Theon halts, fiercely blinking back tears. “Why does my liege not release me from duty?”

Robb stands up on shaky legs. “What I asked you to stay for the pleasure of my body?”

“Do I hear you correctly?”

“Your ears can hear the whistle of an arrow a hundred paces away.”

A hurried false cocky smirk plastered on to his face, Theon spins around. “What happened to your morals and obligations and idealistic dreams?”

“War makes men make desperate choices. Our bodies decay every passing moment, time herself is fleeting, and we both might be dead by the morrow’s sunrise. It would be a pity to die before living life to the fullest.”

Theon tilts his head, his face a mixture of calculated caution and hidden passion. “Any day before today, I would have jumped to attention at this offer. But I have changed. I might have been bitten by the benevolent bug of saintly love, or perhaps caught it from you, but I no longer desire you for physical satisfaction. Yes, I admit that was all I cared for at one point, but watching you grow to be the man you are today made me admire much more than that. I now long for something of the kind you once wished for.” Theon runs a hand through his straggly hair. “I am a fool. So are you, if you think you mean a word of your proposition. I know you, Robb Stark. You are a man of honour like your Father. You will never use me, let me use you. But what we both want cannot be.” He looks down between his toes. “We have told that to each other more times than we have hairs on our heads.”

“Trust you to make light of the dreariest of realisations. We are a sad couple of men, are we not?” Robb stops himself from flinging his arms around the other. “We argue, we reconcile, and we conquer middle ground only to part ways.”

“But, always, it is each other we turn to in times of crisis.”

“I trust you with my life.”

“You have said that many times before.”

“Aye, that was mere courtesy. I mean it. If a deathdealer commands me to choose a caretaker for my soul, I will name you without a moment’s hesitation.”

“You always knew more words than to do with. Do you expect me to repeat the same sentiment?” Theon crosses his arms and grins cheekily. 

Roman taps the side of his nose. “I know it is implied.” He sits down and Theon joins him, a foot of bedding a yawning chasm between them. 

“Theon, will you withhold a secret for me?”

“Who has no secrets these days?” Theon tries to catch his eye. “What are you hiding from me? I know that look.” He releases an exaggerated gasp. “A man, isn’t it? Who is it? Is he the most handsome in the realm?” he adds in a teasing tone. 

“Some say that he is. Do you swear to take knowledge of his name to your grave?”

“I swear on the mother who bore me.”

“Jamie Lannister.”

A loud bray of laughter escapes Theon’s throat. “A good choice, Your Grace. Unwise and unattainable, but a fine specimen of man. Pity he has eyes only for his sister.” 

“Do not mock the situation. I do not know how to cure this mad attraction!” Robb hunches over, elbows on knees. “I know that what I have towards him is a carnal craving that will soon pass.” He twists his head to look at Theon. “Do you not know of any quick remedies for lust? Are you not well versed in these matters?”

“That I am. He drives you mad, you say? Most would say his name sends men mad with fear.”

Robb puts his head in his hands. “Aye,”

Theon lays a hand on his shoulder. “And yet I don’t see you trembling in fear.”

Robb nods despite himself. 

Theon’s fingernails dig into the skin, leaving little half-moon indentions. “You tremble with an emotion all the more powerful.”

Robb clenches the cloth of his trouser in a quivering fist. 

“Lust.” Theon’s hushed whisper strokes Robb’s ear, sending his pounding heart in flurries of pulses.

Theon traces lazy lines over Robb’s shoulder and down his spine. “There are two cures for that which I know.” 

Theon’s other arm comes up to cup Robb’s chin, turning his face to his again. “The first…” Theon’s hand glides down Robb’s swelling chest as softly as the wing of a moth flying towards a flame. “Fuck him…” Theon grips Robb’s throbbing cock. Robb gasps, a heat engulfing his body, radiating from the point of contact. “Or.” Theon’s thumb rubs over the tip. “Find another.” Robb turns into melting candle wax under Theon’s practiced hands. 

Theon releases him and sits back. “Not me, not tonight.” He smiles. “I am worth more than a quick remedy for your little problem.”

The tent is silent besides for Robb’s ragged breath. 

“A wise woman once told me that a wound heals faster with the kiss of someone who loves you.” He takes Robb’s hand in his and lightly kisses the silk wrapped little finger. 

He stands and walks backwards to the tent flap, never breaking his hold on Robb’s gaze. “Goodnight, Your Grace.” And then he was gone faster than a shadow cast by the moon. 

Robb stares at the empty square of light close as the canvas folds fall back into place. He is confused beyond imagination. Had Theon told him that they were king and subject, brothers at arms, lovers by night or lovers in every sense of the word? Or a blend of all? Robb lies still, and sleep continues to be a stranger tonight. 

\------

Theon pushes himself through the night air thick with mist and unknown fears, carving a path through row upon row of tents hulking under the moon like gravestones. He chances upon a clearing, and the moon breaks free of dark heavy clouds and bathes a circle of ground in ethereal silvery beauty, chasing away fog to unseen corners. Theon pauses, letting himself catch his breath. He is confused beyond imagination. Try as he might, he cannot conjure to his mind anything that had happened within the King’s tent, but he remembers every feeling in excruciating detail. Theon was never one to think for too long, wonder for even less and perish the idea of thinking and wondering about his feelings. He was a man of clear-cut action. If he sees food before him, he eats, if the table is empty, he starves. If he pledges his allegiance, he will run his sword through the soldiers of the enemy of his master. If he feels sleepy, he will sleep, if he feels gassy he will fart and if he feels horny he will find him someone to pound to kingdom come. He knew women and men early, the joys of sex came easy to him. They were a mindless turntable of bodies he could not care less about. He sharply divided the world into people who he can fuck, people he can ignore and people he can trust. The last category had only two people his whole life. One, Lord Stark, was dead. And that left… Robb. At first his innocent childish brain regarded him as a cherished playmate he looked up to and who looked out for him. Then his hormone riddled teenage body desired to discover what lay between his thighs. And that wild day at the Festival of Ceres he was as close as he could get to find the answer. But as both matured with the turning tide into men in the waxing and waning moons since that day, he discovered that the regard he had turned from companionship to lust to love, or what he thought must be it. It was not an emotion he knew well, if at all. His starved heart held on like a drowning sailor to this newfound realisation. He had mocked Robb for his fanciful dreams. And now he dreamed them too. As he stands still, Theon teeters on the brink of indecision. He can head back to Robb’s arms and lay his heart bare. If he was accepted or rejected, his conscience would be clear. To the devil’s sunken garden of bones with those who opposed it. To the short lasting sea form with his reputation. But… would Robb feel the same way? Robb’s reputation was not something that can be trifled with. Of all men to fall in love with, he had chosen the most perfect man, but one that was too perfect in the eyes of the world to be sullied by his intrusion. It was the same vicious circle of hope and despair that he swam in every time he thought and wondered or felt about Robb. So, he does not turn.

The moon drowns in clouds again and Theon plunges back into darkness. He heads to his tent, his head heavy and heart heavier. As he continues on his way, he sees the girl who gave him the handkerchief peer at him from her tent, and he sees the spotted face squire peek at him through the corner of his eye. His heavy cock would welcome the distraction, but his head does not permit and his heart even less. He collapses into the rough blanked in his tent, and groans. Loving Robb has done nothing to him but weigh him down with an anchor that refuses to budge, and he lets the heavy iron drown him in to a fitful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, dear readers! 
> 
> Here is Robb's flashback from the last chapter.

A memory from a year ago…

The citizens of Winterfell gather at the water meadows to the South of the city walls. Green succulent verdant squares of grasses and reeds stretch as far as the eye can see. In the middle of the largest field, a straight wooden pole stands tall, decked in coloured flags, fluttering in the breeze like fairies welcoming you for the sprightliest dance in the cradle of nature. It is the day of the year that the sun is at its peak in the sky, or so the Astrologers tell, and they must be wise if their long white beards are any indication. But it is not old men who are celebrated today; the Festival of Ceres is for the young. Dozens of girls clad in bright white light dresses dance with flowers clutched in their arms, flower crowns on their heads and flower garlands around their necks. They dart over the grass like birds, birds that drop seeds in the ground that spring forth life. Young men gather at the edges of the great field, calling out names of sweethearts with boyish enthusiasm and charm. The girls rebuff them laughing, banding against their advances. It is all in good fun for the few who had the freedom and time and money to attend, and several matches have been made that caused the two sets of parents to sigh in relief or pick up pitchforks. 

The Queen of this year is without contest. It is Sansa Stark’s debut, and she is loveliest flower in the field, her coppery hair radiant in the sunbeams. At sixteen, she is late to the festivities, as Lord Stark found the entire display of revelry and pageantry to be a waste of time. Only Sansa’s repeated pleas and Lady Stark finally taking her side led for the young girl to the grounds today in the most ravishing sky blue gown. Her laughter tinkles through the air to Robb Stark standing in the shade of a wayward tree. He is acting as the Chaperone. It is a role he detests but he does love his little sister and hates seeing his mother worry even more. Only one year older than her, he already deems the festival too childish, though he is among the youngest of the men gathered to leer and cheer and jeer at the frolicking maidens. 

Where Robb is, Theon is never too far away. He creeps up from behind, and springs forward with holler, knocking Robb to the ground. “Hyaa!”

Robb rolls away laughing. “Get off me, you freak!” 

Theon pins him down, his nose inches away from the other’s. “No one calls me freak and gets away with it!” He smirks. “But I will make an exception for you. And you are the freak, all alone when there’s so much fun to be had.” He stands up and pulls him up after him. 

“I like being alone. Need to get used to it when I am Lord, then my friends comes with daggers in their smiles.”

“Not me, My Lord.” Theon sets his face in a determined scowl. 

Robb claps him on the back. “Lighten up, Theon. Go enjoy yourself! There are many young lasses and lads out there who would sell the clothes off the back for a chance with you.”

“They would not be needing clothes for what we would be doing!” 

Robb follows Theon’s eyes to see the girl he has within his sights. 

“A beauty, is she not?” Robb asks.

“Aye.” 

“And this will be the last time you see anything unless you take that lecherous look off your face.” Robb closes Theon’s lower jaw for him. “My sister is not for you.”

“I have heard it said our father – your father – has plans for Sansa to be wed to me to secure an alliance.” He looks at Robb with a smile. “Then we will truly be family.”

“If that be so, then it will happen in good time. For the time being, find yourself another,” Robb adds with all the posture of big brotherly assertiveness. 

“I can find me plenty in each bush. What about you?”

“I did not come here in search of a person to seduce, but for the worthier cause of protecting my sister from those who did.”

“Kill two birds with one stone.” Theon nudges Robb. “Come on, do not be shy.” He sees the reluctance in the other’s face. He drops his voice lower. “If you would rather, I can go ask one for you. I am a great right hand man, if you catch my drift.”

“Is it not too lowly for you to be playing squire in the battles of my heart?”

“So long as it is not playing squire in the battles of your bed!” Theon throws his head back and howls with laughter. “Let us go get you a girl. How about the one over there with hair like corn?” He whispers in his ear. 

“No.”

“Or do you have your eye on a boy?” Theon chuckles, knowing that Robb would find what he said hilarious. He himself had told Robb that he liked sleeping with both men and women, but Robb rarely if ever liked discussing these matters with anyone, not even him.

Robb resolutely ignores him. If only he knew.

“Look, she is glancing your way,” says Theon, poking Robb in the ribs. “Do not worry, I will not tell her the eldest Stark born is still a virgin.” 

Robb cuffed Theon on the jaw. “Get on with you! Go annoy someone else.” 

“Leave your side? Never! Who is going to make sure you would not wander off and start singing to the trees or something?”

Robb rolls his eyes and returns his gaze at Sansa and a gaggle of her girls teasing a trio of farm lads. He observes the crowds of catcalling men on the fringes of the green. He sees a group of riotous boys goading each other to make the first move on the blacksmith’s daughter who has made it clear that one of them will be getting lucky come dusk. They seem to be engaged in a game of insults at each other, and the one who made the other one embarrassed the most takes a lead. Robb looks away, brow furrowed with distaste. 

“Theon?”

“Aye, my young lord?”

“Do you have other friends here?”

“Of course!”

“Who?”

Theon twiddles his thumbs. “No one I can see right now.”

Robb sighs sympathetically and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Do the boys still bully you?”

“Not since I mastered the sword.”

“And does no one want to be your friend?”

“No one is worthy of being the friend of the last true heir of Lord Greyjoy!” says Theon with a dark scowl. “They think I am the outcast with no right to be here, but I am better than the lot of them put together.”

“Look at me, Theon!” He does so. “Am I the only one here who treats you as his equal?” 

Theon nods, once, sharply, his eyes aflame with anger, and maybe something else.

Robb pulls him into a hug. “You will always have me for a friend. No matter what happens. Keep that in mind.”

Is that the sound of Theon choking back a sob? 

Robb, his entire body buzzing with goose bumps, lets his cheek rest against Theon’s for a moment, and feels the slightest pressure be returned.

He hears a cackle to his left, “Look at the pansies cuddling under the tree! Too in love with each other to go grab a girl!”

Theon immediately steps out of Robb’s embrace and charges at the offender, whose blood drains from his face as he realises whom the two of them are. Theon knees him in the stomach and presses the tip of his sword at the boy’s throat when he falls flat on his back. 

“I should slit your mouth into a smile that never closes!” spits out Theon through gritted teeth. “Words like that can have you meet your maker, you barefaced liar!”

Robb regains his composure and strolls up. He notes that they are the boys vying for the Blacksmith’s daughter’s affections. “These ragamuffins are not worth our time. Let that boy go.” Theon steps aside reluctantly. 

The boys staggers up, helped by his three friends. “Too high and mighty to talk with likes of us, eh?” he spits at them. “I thought you were a Lord’s son!”

“I pick my battles wisely,” says Robb. “And I gave you the chance to retreat.”

“And what if we don’t? You’re going to ask your pet to chase us?”

Theon snarls and if Robb did not hold him back from the collar, he would have slashed the boy into two. 

“You say we cannot win the hand of a girl?” Robb smiles. He turns to the girl standing a few paces away, eyes agog. “If my friend and I beat off your hecklers, will you be kind of to declare them as liars?”

She nods eagerly.

“Very well.” Robb draw his sword and drops it to the ground. “Our opponents are unarmed. We will fight the same.” Then drops his sword too, but it is plain he would rather not have.

The boy who insulted them laughs mockingly. “You have hidden behind steel all your lives.” He whistles, and a giant of a boy lumbers over, grinding one fist against another. “Show us how you fight!”

Robb narrows his eyes. He needs a strategy fast. He hisses at Theon. “You take the giant.” Theon gulps. “Remember, uses your agility and quickness over his brute force.”

Without warning Robb launches forward, garnering the element of surprise to his advantage. He sends one boy crashing back to the other with one well-aimed kick, and punches the rude boy’s teeth into his skull for good measure. The three of them run away, the boy with the broken mouth screaming incomprehensibly. Robb quickly looks to see how Theon fares. Theon had avoided the giant’s punches, gripped his belt and somersaulted onto his back. Locking his legs around the swarthy neck, and poked him in the eyes. As he yelled with pain, Theon pinched his nose tightly until he passed out. Theon hops off his crashing frame now, and grins widely as he bumps his fist against Robb’s.

“You fought well, Stark!”

“Likewise, Greyjoy!”

“I saved your furry little ass!”

“You got us in to trouble in the first place!”

“That was exactly what I needed! And now…” Theon turns to the girl. “What was the deal?” 

“Those boys were liars, My Lord. You’re so much more stronger and bigger than them!” The girl simpers. 

“Are words all I get from you?” says Theon, running his tongue over his lower lip.

“Aye.” Robb steps between them. “Dear Miss, you are a lucky girl today. Run off your friends and enjoy the rest of the festival.” 

She giggles and hurries away.

Theon looks horrified. “Why did you do that for? We won her fair and square.”

“I would hate to have a friend who is no better than the boy whose face I punched in.”

Theon grumbles under his breath. “You were always a cockblocker.”

“What was that?”

“Um…” Theon tries to think on his feet, not his best skill. “You were always a good looker!” He blanches. “Apologies, what I meant was -”

Robb stares at him as if he is in a waking dream. The words he had longed to hear, but were they true or a mistake in the spur of the moment?

“BOYS!” Sansa marches towards the, her voice calling out shriller than usual. “I am tired. We shall head home.”

“Of course, Sister.” Robb bows.

“Will you not bow when a lady is present, Theon Greyjoy?” she asks with a tilt of her head.

“I see no lady, and I cannot bow, I am told I am Robb’s little pet.” Theon performs an exaggerated curtsy. 

Sansa laughs and Robb gives a rare smile. 

“Stop acting the court fool!” Robb offers his arm to Sansa, who threads her through his. On impulse, he offers his other arm to Theon, who looks at it incredulously. 

“Must I take your arm too? Is there no man in me left?” he asks, eyes betraying his indigence.

Robb blushes and puts his arm down at once. 

The three of them walk in silence up the dusty chalk path to the castle. 

Sansa is the first to speak. “I was so looking forward to a day of revelry! The decorations were breath taking and the girls are the sweetest you could ever meet. But the boys and young men were such a poor lot! Barbarians!”

“I saw you teasing some slack jawed admirers,” says Robb, throwing a wink at Theon, who studiously ignores him. 

“Ah yes, some of the village bumpkins were easy to fool. But I wanted a true man! Why did you not come to my rescue, Theon?”

“You staunch and over-protective brother did not think me worthy of your company.” Theon stares ahead stonily.

“That might well be.” Sansa smiles knowingly. “He clearly prefers your company all to himself.”

Robb halts. “What do you mean by that?”

Sansa looks up at him. “What could I possibly mean by that? You two have the closest bond I have ever seen between two brothers at arms.”

“Ah.” Robb resumes walking.

“But what did you think it meant?” asks Theon slyly.

“It made me think of a few swears not fit for children’s ears.” Robb glares at Theon, silently begging him to drop the subject. 

“I am not a child!” cries Sansa with passion. The rest of the stroll is spent discussing who is the most mature among them, and Sansa wins of course. She claims that she is wise enough to know who the young men are in love with, even though both hotly deny being in love at all.

Later, Robb escorts Sansa to her room, nodding a greeting at the guards stationed at each door. After bidding goodbye to his sister, he slips into his room. The day’s activities had taken an unexpected turn, and he needed time to think and process. He takes on the comfortable ambience of his room, which is as spick and span as a teenager can possibly keep his room. The big square slabs of solid granite line a room with minimum furniture. A stuffed stag’s head dominates the room, bolted to the wall above his bed. A room perfect for brooding. However, he did not find the room empty. Theon lounges on the windowsill, nonchalantly munching on an apple. 

“How did you get in here so fast?” says Robb in bewilderment. 

“Bran Stark isn’t the only one who can scale these walls.”

“But why? My door is always open for you.”

“Thought it would be romantic.” Theon tosses the apple core at Robb, who misses it in his astonishment. 

“And who are you wooing?” stutters Robb.

Theon steps up to him. “Close the door.”

“Why?”

“Every corner of Westeros is full of unfriendly ears, even the stronghold of Winterfell. What I have to say might do us great harm in the wrong hands.”

Robb closes the door without breaking his gaze on Theon. “What is with all this secrecy? We are in peaceful times.”

“That might not last long.” Theon steps even closer, the fronts of their jackets almost brushing against each other. “What were you on about earlier today?”

“What do you mean?”

“The blushes, offering me your hand, pressing your cheek against mine.” Theon looks away. “There is something I must tell you.” He looks back angrily. “But if you are taking me on for a ride, or you are making a fool of me, I won’t hesitate running my sword through you –“ His voice dies. “I can never do that.”

“What do have to say to me?” asks Robb quietly.

“What do you think of me?”

“What kind of question is that? I think highly of you! A skilled swordsman, fights dirty if needs be, a bit of a hothead, a sensitive heart, up for a laugh, always got my back, need I go on?”

“That is how one brother regards another.” Theon took a deep breath. “Do you like me?”

“Aye.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Theon steps back. “I am wasting my time here. What was I even expecting?” He heads to the window once more.

“Wait.”

Theon looks back.

“I – I am fond of you.”

“What does that even mean?”

Robb scratches the back of his neck. “Can I ask you some questions?”

Theon nods.

“Am I courageous?” asks Robb.

“Aye. The most god damned bravest fool I have ever seen hold a sword.”

“Do I back down from a challenge?”

“You would look a dragon in the eye, except you would not be that reckless.”

“Do I speak my mind?”

“If you meet anyone intelligent enough to understand you, which thankfully excludes your present company.”

Robb laughs weakly. “But I am a coward.”

Theon scowls. “Who told you that? Let me see how far I can stick my sword down his throat! You are no coward, you hear me?”

“I tell myself I am a coward. I am too scared to tell you how I feel.”

Theon grips his shoulders. “It is only me, your brother in all but blood. We might have not shared a womb, but in all other matters we share everything.”

“You were always braver than me.” Robb closes his eyes. “I have no words. Show me how you feel towards me, be it a punch to the gut, a clap on the back or a –“

Theon kisses him.

Robb’s mind goes blank, hardly grasping at what was happening. White light filters through unexplored chambers of his brain, as his senses return to him slowly. He feels a red hot flame simmering on his lips, fanning tongues of desire though his body. He can hear birdsong in his ear, his feet tread air, his soul leaves his body behind for a dance among the stars that stand silent sentinels over the seven kingdoms. His finger threading unconsciously through the tangles springing from Theon’s head, pulling him closer, fearing he might disappear forever the cruel second he lets go.

Theon’s wildest dream plays out before him in living daylight. He had realised from the first time he saw Robb as a child of ten, that there was something different about him. He was kind with his words, generous with his time and unchanging in his ways as they grew up side by side. Lady Stark had frowned at his presence, even told Robb that he might not be the best person to associate with, but Robb steadfastly was there for him through it all. Not many people stayed for long in Theon’s life: The family that gave him away for good, the so called drinking buddies he wasted coin with, the glorious knights whose backs he broke in combat, the whores he ground against a cold and unforgiving bed. He knew he was attracted to Robb soon as he knew what it meant to be infatuated with someone. He knew that he felt more towards him than a brother at arms last year, when he saw the proud smile on Robb’s face when he dragged home the carcass of a stag, his first kill. He knew he was in love when Robb, cool and smooth as polished silver, walked up to a group of noblemen sneering at him at the New Year’s banquet, put his arm around and introduced him as someone he trusted with his life. He lusted for him from afar, unsure what lay beyond the vacant expression Robb often wore. He tested the idea now and again, shying away the last minute for all his foolhardiness. 

The kiss is needy, desperate, both men dropping their guard at last, no boundaries, nothing held back. It is heavenly and hellish, sublime and torture. It is freedom and chains simultaneously.

Robb is first to break away. He backs away against the wall. “What are you doing?”

Thorn laughs, pulling him by his collar. “What am I doing? Seemed like you were into it more than me!”

“But we cannot kiss!”

“Cannot? What do you call this then?” Theon brushes his lips against Robb’s.

Robb turns his head away. “We should not kiss.”

“You are a coward then.” Theon lets go and pulls away.

“Wait. I am no coward.”

“Prove it.” Theon puts his hands behind his back. “I will not move a muscle. Do your worst.”

Robb dithers on the brink of anticipation and trepidation, and then extends a shaky hand. He brushes a disobedient lock of hair on Theon’s forehead behind his ear. His hand caresses down to cup his cheek. He tilts his face towards him, and gently kisses the shorter man between the eyes. An eyelid flurries against his cheek. He kissed the bridge of his nose, a peck on the tip, savouring the musky sweaty tang, and captures his lips in a lingering kiss. His arms circle Theon’s waist, as his tongue nudges against his lips, seeking entrance. Theon’s lips part, and Robb’s tongue traces a path along his uneven teeth, slowly, ever so slowly. They break apart, gasping for breath. Robb showers kisses along Theon’s jawline, lips scraping against stubble, and nibbles his earlobe. He rests his chin on Theon’s shoulder and hugs closer to him, swaying to the beat of music only they may hear. 

Theon blinks. “Damn, that was bloody good for a first timer.” He slaps Robb on the ass.

“Way to ruin a moment.” Robb chuckles. 

“The moment’s only beginning.” Theon tosses Robb onto his bed, and climbs on top of him. He unties the buckles of Robb’s jacket expertly, and draws it open as his fingers graze over the soft fabric of his shirt. With a smile that curled his lower lip, Theon unlaces Robb’s tunic and pushes it up over his chest. “If you could only count the days I pleasured myself thinking of this moment.” He rains kisses down Robb’s hair dusted chest, biting here and there, then lunges up again to suckle viciously on his neck. He pulls back smirking.

“Why did you do that for? It will show in the morning. People will see!” Robb says agitatedly, rubbing at the spot. 

“Let them.” Theon ran his hands over the front of Robb’s trousers, and whistles. “You are a true Lord indeed.”

“Stop.”

Theon retracts his hand, puzzled. “What is the matter?”

“I have one point that I must clarify.”

“Which is?”

“Is this a once off moment, forgotten the next day? Am I to be another one of your whores you won for one night?”

“You think so low of me?” Theon looks genuinely upset. “Have I not proven my devotion to you?”

“Aye. I always thought of us as something more than rough and tumble romp in a dishevelled bed.”

“What more can there be?”

“A future for us…”

“And what did his Lordship think of our future?” Theon laughs carelessly. “Get married on a cliff overlooking the sea? And a herd of storks will deliver your first-born son, your heir? And what of me? Sit by your side, draped on your arm?” He balls up a fistful of the bed sheet. “That can never be, dreams between men rarely manifest, unless it’s between thieves or merchants on the matter of making money. I have been with men before, and it is always hidden rendezvous in the dark of the night. If you are rich or in power, men would turn a blind eye. But, you, my humble master, must marry, to a beautiful woman form a powerful family, and little lords and ladies must fill these castle walls. And what of me, then? Will I be a ghost haunting your bed? Will I return to the Iron Islands? Will I go out riding and fall into a ditch, cracking my neck? Do not hold onto a future that cannot be, our fates might change tomorrow, or even as we speak. My motto is to enjoy the present, and enjoy it as much good luck and good health will let you. Now shut your mouth and let me take care of you.”

Robb nods, dumbstruck once more. 

Theon smirks and lowers his head.

There is a knock on the door, and it swings open before either man has time to react. Sansa’s face peeps in, and her mouth falls open delicately at the sight before her.

Four eyes blink back at her.

She laughs in delight. “My suspicions were true after all!”

Theon falls back and stands beside the bed. He bows. “My Lady.”

“Now he remembers his manners!” 

Robb scrambles out of bed, tightening his trousers and pulling down his tunic. “I am sorry you had to see that, Sansa,” he says, he face redder than the setting sun. “I can explain everything. 

“There is nothing to explain, do not fear.”

But Robb does worry; Sansa is known to carry tales to their parents. “Please do not tell anyone of us.”

“Your secret is safe with me. However, you must be extra nice to me. Tell Father and Mother what a good girl I am, escort me where I please, and wash my Direwolf Lady once a week.”

Robb groans. “For how long?”

“As long as you intend to keep the secret of course.”

“Fine, but you are blackmailing me.”

“Utter nonsense! I am helping you. I can be of further use to you. I can spin good cover up excuses to make sure no one knows what the two of you are up to. And you two are hopeless in doing anything romantic, you have cinderblocks for heads. I will be happy to offer my services as relationship advisor.” She smiles prettily and claps her hands happily. “This is going to be so much fun!”

“Good! Now go before I start shouting!”

“Oh, before I forget why I came knocking at your door.” She deposits a dozen papers on his table. “Messages from all the girls who are interested in you. They will be so disappointed! Goodbye!” She blows a kiss to Theon and steps out, shutting the door behind him. 

“I cannot believe what just happened.” Robb massages his temples. “Sisters are worse than shadowcats!”

“Makes you want to swear off women altogether, eh?” Theon flops back onto the bed. “Now, where were we?”

“I am afraid I cannot resume our… activity.” Robb opens the door for Theon. “This has all been too much for one day. Let us talk again tomorrow.”

Theon growls and stalks out of the room. “Now you’re leaving me with a massive case of blue balls.”

“Well, I hope I supplied fresher material for your wet dreams. Until next time!”

Theon looks up and down the corridor, sees no one, and quickly pecks Robb on the cheek. He sprints back to his own room. He has a prominent issue he needed to attend to immediately.

Robb, meanwhile, is in turmoil. There is no sleep for him tonight.

Somehow or other, there was never a next time. Robb might be free one afternoon, but Theon would be on patrol duty. Thorn might wake up early and wander into Robb’s room, but he would be too sleepy after his lessons the day before. Robb might be skittish, Theon over eager. There was always someone volunteering to accompany them on their usual horse rides, and there was hardly any other time when the two men could be alone. Three months of longing glances in the shower, straying hands under the tablecloth and fleeting kisses in the shadows of archways later, Theon was ready to howl to the moon in frustration. Fortunately, the very next day lord Stark assigned them to solve a land dispute at a remote village, and that meant a long horse ride through the Darkwood. 

They ride in silence for an hour, when Theon suddenly leans over and grasps the reins of Roman’s steed. He brings both horses to a standstill. 

“Are you avoiding me, My Lord?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Have you forgotten your promise? You promised a next time! I have kept away from whores and taverns for three months because you asked me to, and now I find myself asking for what!”

“We are on official mission. I will not jeopardise Father's orders with distractions.”

“A distraction! Is that all I am to you?”

Robb grips Theon’s forearm. “I do not like this change that has come over you, ever since we…”

“You want us to return to what we were before? Two shamefaced boys too frightened to face their fears and desires like men? I asked you if you were leading me on, and it seems like you are.”

“Now is not the time for this. We will be late for the hearing in the village.”

“Screw the hearing! Hear what I have to say!” Theon’s breath heaves. 

“Wantonness is not a good colour on your face.”

“Frigidity is not a good colour on your face!”

“Is all you care about is a good fuck? Go on then, throw me over the saddle and have your way with me.” Robb glares back challengingly, a stare that forces grown knights to kneel. The horses shift uneasily. 

Theon looks down at the reins knotted in his hands. He tosses the leather straps back, and takes off in a speedy canter, leaving Robb behind in the dust. 

He gives chase, catching Theon at the crook of a fern fringed shady brook. He dismounts, and pulls a resisting Theon off his own horse. While the exhausted steeds thirstily lap at the water’s edge, the two men stare at their ever-shifting rippling reflections. 

Robb looks at his companions with dewy eyes that shine like crystals in the early morning sunlight. “I dream that there might be a future for us. A castle far away. Where we can be together safe and away from the world. We could -”

Theon holds a finger against his lips, then reaches up to pluck an apple from a laden branch spread above them. He extends it towards the other, the apple’s cheek as rosy as Robb’s own. Robb smiles and reaches out, but before his fingers could touch the smooth dimpled peel, Theon twists it around. A foul fruit fly has bored through, and buzzes at the centre of a discoloured wound of rotten juices. Theon tosses it to the grass and grounds it under his heel. 

“Dream within reach, not that which can never be.” With that Theon leaps onto his neighing horse and splashes across the river, cutting a path through broken leaves and snapped twigs. Robb has no choice but to follow, battling to keep up. 

They return from the mission misremembering the name of the village, and mistakenly selling the same plot of land to three different farmers, and Lord Stark severely reprimands them. Things are sullen between the two opinionated young men for a few weeks that seem to drag endlessly. Then they slowly patch their strained relationship, as they are connected at heart after all. Robb gave Theon a new bauble for his cloak, and he shot down a plump partridge for the other’s breakfast. They were the best of friends in no time, and as the moon cycles pass, it was as if nothing has changed between the two. 

But something does change. They never speak of that summer day again. Sansa, after questioning them once or twice, falls silent on that topic. Theon gives himself to a myriad of carnal pleasures to recreate the feeling again, but fails. Then he continues to forget what he cannot. Robb carefully locks up that fateful encounter in a small compartment at the back of his mind, and begins to pine after a man and a chance he fears he threw away he might never get again.

\------

That box stays closed until tonight, and once opened, floods Robb’s head with the undeniable truth of what had happened. He opens his eyes.

Yes, an year later, Robb remembers it all, as does Theon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

A few leagues away from the camp, stands the castle of Lord Con of House Bunco. He is a Bannerman with fealty sworn to Lord Stark in name only, as in practice he has yet to enlist to the war. He controls the Keep of Capes further to the South, a strategic position overseeing a narrow pass to the flatlands beyond. It was strategic stronghold for whichever army that held it, and may even decide the victor of the war in the time to come. The informants of Robb’s War Council report that the Keep of Capes is yet only home to its guardians, the Knights of Kilts, and that Lord Con has closed the doors of Castle Bunco. He has not chosen a side as yet, and Robb fears that Lannister gold might persuade him to sign away the Keep to The Army of the South. The raven they sent to Castle Bunco requesting an audience with its Lord returned with a message that the King of the North, and only he, would be permitted through the doors. The War Council debated heatedly whether Lord Con was in a position to make such a demand, and whether they should follow the instruction at all. There is the possibility that their King would be held hostage, killed or worse, handed over to the Lannisters. Robb puts an end to their bickering by solemnly pointing out that Lord Con held all the cards in his hand at this point, and doing as he says would be the surest way to deal with the matter without any bloodshed. The War Council agrees, though not without misgivings, and Robb sets off alone, sitting upright on a swift white horse.

But he is not unwise. He has a contingency plan.

Theon is getting ready to join the daily patrol when a messenger runs up to him. He notes from the markings on his shoulder pad that he is an envoy directly from the King. He reads the message, and smiles to himself. Robb still trusted him the most, hm? Of course he would follow his orders. He always did, but only if they were from Robb. And he was no stranger to a little bit of subterfuge. 

Theon sneaks out of the camp without detection. He leaves behind his uniform and sword, dressed instead in a hunter’s green garb and armed with his trusty bow and arrow. Before him lies the Forest of Three Thickets. The name is self-explanatory, and three large clumps of thorny woods spring out of a grassy plateau. The Army of the North is camped near one, and Castle Bunco is built besides another. He heads to the third as instructed. As he clomps over the uneven underbrush, he keeps looking to the Castle in the distance. He can make out a white horse and its rider reach the gates, and a tall figure looking down from a window high up in the castle wall. He hopes Robb will not come in harm’s way, and he wishes he was by his side. But he has faith in Robb’s plan, and he plods forward. 

Robb wonders if being a King is nothing but arguing with bearded old men who should know better. Does no one care for the peace of the land or the good of the realm? His discussion – or battle of words, rather – with Lord Con is fruitless. The hunched goat like man has an impeccable understanding of oaths, and remembers ones made while Ned Stark himself was a boy. No matter how well Robb stated his case or pointed out vows of loyalty, Lord Con found a loophole to exploit. Robb grinds his teeth in exasperation many a time. His stress levels are not eased by the worry at the back of his mind that he had sent Theon to his death on a foolish mission. He hopes he is faring well, and he would rather be with him in the thicket than in this cold stone walled room with threadbare carpets. 

“You see, boy, I am a man who keeps my word,” says Lord Con with a smile that could cut through metal. 

“Age is not the factor that decides language, Lord Con, it is intelligence. Your words are simply a waste of breath.” Rob takes a deep breath, hoping he has learnt his history well. “Tell me have you heard of the Binding of the Three Thickets?”

“Of course, I have! I made it when you were not yet a seed in your father’s loins!”

“That might well be. All gathered there agreed that the Keep of Capes would fall under your purview, did they not?”

“Do not teach me what I have lived through.”

“I did not mean to offend. Did you not promise that the Keep might be leased out in war if the need arises, unless you decide to remain neutral in the war?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“As I distinctly remember, if you are to choose a side, the Keep must be leased with the full knowledge of all the Bannermen. If not, it will automatically be handed over the Lord of Winterfell. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” repeats Lord Con, and Robb notes a nervous tic of guilt in his shifty eyes. 

“That is all I have to say.” Robb would have stood up at this point, had he been offered a seat in the first place. “A man like you who holds his oaths so strongly would not be able to look at another in the face again if he was found to be breaking one. Imagine the dishonour. Pity if that was to happen, yes?” Robb bows, and exits. 

Meanwhile, Theon enters the third thicket, and moves stealthily between the thorn trees. Wiry branches close overhead, leaving sun-dappled spots on the ground strewn with fallen needles. He is careful to not step on them, fearing they might crackle and give away his position. He is not sure what he is on the lookout for, and does a sweep of the thicket, leaving no stone unturned. 

Suddenly, he hears the striking of horseshoes. 

He crouches behind a rock as the rider passes by. He bears the sign of Lord Con on his cloak. Another rider approaches from the opposite direction. Theon stifles a gasp. The second horseman is cloaked in red, the colour of the Lannisters. The first rider hands him a letter, sealed with Lord Con’s own sigil. Theon frowns. He needs to get his hands on that letter, and fast. He draws his bow, and releases an arrow in the space of a held breath. The arrow nicks the letter from the man’s hands, and impales itself on a tree. Both men look at the direction the arrow came from, swords drawn, and see no one. When they turn back to the tree, the letter is gone too. 

Not too far away, Robb rides back fast towards the camp, hoping he had not made empty threats. He need not have worried. He hears a long hoot, not unlike the honking of a goose. He recognises it immediately, it is a hunting call he learnt as a young boy training at Theon’s side. An arrow lands on the ground before the horse, which rears up in fright. Calming the horse with some gentle pats, Rob dismounts. There is a letter attached to the arrow. He picks it up, and smiles when he notices the sigil on the letter. His suspicions were true then. 

Robb rides back to the camp a happy man. The War Council is suitably surprised and impressed at the way their young King took matters to his hands and succeeded. When asked how he got hold of the letter, Robb simply smiled and said that he has his ways. At the back of the Council tent, Theon grins to himself in the shadows. 

Robb weighs the letter in his hand. This still could be a red herring if it proved to be of no consequence. 

“We cannot break the seal. The letter is not meant for us,” warns Lord Umber. The most loud-mouthed of all Robb’s advisors; his word is the most respected and decisive. “Honour permits us to take the letter to him and make him open it and read its contents out loud before us.”

“He will find a way for more deceit if we hand him the letter without knowing its contents,” says Robb grimly. “I will not be made a fool.”

Many pairs of eyes focus on the simple scroll of paper, looking so innocent despite the crucial information it bore. One pair of eyes looks up.

“We could say it was damaged in its retrieval,” says Theon. 

Robb frowns. He glances at Lord Umber who gives a quick nod. He turns around the room, and most faces acquiesce. 

“Who will do the honour?” asks Robb. “I hope a room full of good men do not expect me to break the seal myself!”

This time, the eyes look anywhere but the letter or Robb.

“I will,” says Theon quietly. He picks the letter, breaks the seal with one swift move and hands it to Robb with a smile. All eyes are interested in the transaction. 

Robb takes it wordlessly and scans through the letter. He laughs scornfully. “We are correct. The dog intends to sell what is rightfully ours to the Lannisters!”

The room erupts with cries of anger and derision. Robb holds up his hand for silence and gets it immediately. “Fetch me my horse, I have urgent business to attend.”

It was an easy matter of convincing Lord Con to hand over the Keep of Capes to him, with the letter more effective than a sword against his throat. The second time Robb is at Castle Bunco, he receives an altogether different greeting, with the flustered promises of a shame-faced Lord Con, who grovells at his feet for forgiveness. He grants it easily, knowing he was better as an ally than a prisoner. To show his thanks, Lord Con hands him two Knights of Kilts who were stationed at Castle Bunco, who were due back at the Keep of Capes soon. Robb agrees to take them with him there, and add them to the ranks of his Personal Guardsmen. The two staunch men nod at their orders, with the stoic bearing associated with their Knighthood. Robb returns to camp with them in tow, the mission a success. 

\------

Later, Theon is washing off the grime of the day in his tent, stripped down to his trousers. 

“May I come in?” Robb pauses at the tent flap.

“Always, Your Grace.” 

Robb ducks into the tent, and is brought to a sharp halt upon seeing Theon’s chest and arms in their bare and rippling glory, flecked with rivulets of water glinting where they caught the rays of the setting sun.

“Like what you see?” asks Theon, smirking. 

Robb pushes the indisputable answer to the back of his mind. “I have come to apologise.”

Theon blinks. That was definitely not the reaction he expected. “For what?” he asks, perhaps a tad too sharply. He pulls on a tunic.

“For not giving you the recognition you deserve for your heroic acts today. I hope you understand why I could not reveal your part in today’s victory?”

Theon shrugs. He would not have minded the reluctant awe in the eyes of the other Councilmen, when they hear that the foreign boy had bested them. But he knows that Robb needed a man to do his dirty work, and rather he be it than another, for all the praise in the world. Robb honoured him by choosing him, and that was enough for him, surprisingly. “I do not hold grudges,” he says with a note of finality. “I have heard a few men whisper that they think you are two righteous a ruler, and it might have silenced a few of them to know that you can pull of a bit of deception with success.”

“True. But I am afraid the seal breaking incident may have soured their opinion of you.” 

“It was soured enough already. I am glad we gained the Keep of Capes, and the Knights of Kilts are good allies. Worrying about your losses would not get you anywhere, be content with your wins. All thanks to me, of course!”

“I have missed your ego.” Robb smiles self-consciously. “I have a confession.”

“What? You have a thing for Lord Con, too?”

Robb rolls his eyes. “As if. He is a dirty backstabbing trickster.”

“He is a backstabber, eh?”

“Careful, you will lose your tongue if you continue this line of talking.”

Theon chuckles and holds his peace.

“Do you think it was wrong of me to play at Lord Con’s game?” Robb rubs his forehead. “I feel my father would not be proud of what I did today.” 

Theon picks at a fingernail. He never knows what to say when Robb talks of his father. “It needed to be done. And you did for the greater good. A bit of lying and cheating is fine by me if no one gets hurt. Or at least, only the people who deserve to get hurt.”

“How can I be the judge of that?”

“You judged it so when you chose to free the North from the South and be its King.”

Robb sighs. He knows it, but it is clearer to hear someone whose counsel he valued say it. “Thank you. For your advice and your bravery. Even if no one else might know of it, my gratitude is endless.”

Theon waves it off. “I hardly did anything, Your Grace. Your negotiation must have been tougher. I can face a hundred men in the battlefield, but I will go to pieces if I must face a fat faced Lord with a poker up his ass sitting on a throne.” Theon always think of his stern father when he hears the word lord, and that cruel image does him no favours. 

“Each to his own, we are good at what we do.”

“There may be something both of us are good at, though,” says Theon softly.

Robb shifts from foot to foot. “After last night’s conversation…”

“I do not know whether I meant anything I said, or if I did, what parts of it.”

“Me neither.”

Both look at each other awkwardly.

Theon steps forward and extends his hand. “We should let bygones be bygone. Are we on good terms now?”

Robb grips him by the forearm. “I would not have it any other way.”

“I was worried about you all day,” says Theon gruffly.

“So was I.”

“Worried about yourself, Your Grace? Are there not enough who do?”

“You know I mean I was worried about you.”

“Good to know someone does.”

They relax visibly, held strong by their connected arms. Theon finds himself pulling the other towards him, almost imperceptibly, as if by a powerful magnetic force beyond their control. 

Robb bids a curt goodbye, lets go of Theon’s hand, and leaves hurriedly with a turn of his heel. 

Theon stares at the space Robb stood before for a moment or two in silence, then falls into bed. His snores batter the cheap linen sheets around him till the orange teeth of the sun bite over the horizon, dew bleeds on the trodden grass, and the sluggish creatures of the soil stir.

\------

In the largest tent in the camp, the first sunbeams of the reborn sun caress Robb’s cheek as the air quickens and livens with dawning day and the trill of small birds spreads as they hunt for worms and beetles. Robb sits up in bed, and yawns. His squire brings in a bowl of fresh warm water that Robb splashes on to his face. Invigorated, he steps into his full battle regalia. Time to face the day. He strides out of his tent with purpose as the wake up bugle call blares through the camp. 

Theon staggers out of his tent, yawning. He wonders down to the mess hall, rubbing the sleep crust from his eyes. He elbows his way through the already forming crowd of bedraggled men and snatches up a hunk of bread. He leans against a flagpole nearby and takes a slow bite. Though there are many men here he would willingly break bread with, he values his solitude today. 

“There you are, Greyjoy.”

Theon spins around to see Robb hastening towards him. One look was all that it took for both men to drop the barriers of last night. It was as if they were meeting for the first time, the very same thrill of expectation of something new and exciting around the corner. 

Theon bows his head. “Your Grace.” He mutters, still not fully awake to process his thoughts and make a coherent sentence, but that phrase was ever ready to roll off his tongue. 

“I have decided to walk to the perimeter of our Outer Watch Guards before the War Council,” says Robb, his expression guarded. “Will you accompany me?” The mess hall was no place for an outward explosion of emotion. 

“Your wish is my command as always.” Theon swallows the last of the bread. “May I go retrieve my sword from my tent before we set off?”

“I will come with you.”

Theon nods and walks off with a pace faster than his usual. Robb has to hurry to keep up, as he reluctantly admits to himself that the smaller man is nimbler on his feet than him, although he has the stronger swordarm of the two. Conversation is out of the question, as both men are slightly out of breath as they arrive at the tent. Not only because of the exercise, but as Robb could not help be but entranced by how well Theon’s trousers framed his ass from behind and Theon felt tingles crawl down his spine every time Robb’s breath alighted on his neck. 

Theon ducks down into his tent, smirking, fully aware of the effect his behind has on Robb. He exits, sword firm in hand, an unnecessary swish to his hips as he buckles the scabbard on. He enjoys seeing the tinge of pink on the tip of Robb’s ears, enjoys that he has the power to do so to him, and enjoys the sneaky tug in his heart every time he sees Robb’s stony expression falter to a smile at his antics. 

“You had no one with you in your tent last night?” asks Robb, unable to keep a smug note from his voice.

“I was tempted, sure, but then I remembered that a jealous Robb is a grumpy Robb, and a grumpy Robb is all bark and no bite.”

Both men laugh with reckless abandon, the grievances of last night forgotten temporarily. But reality harkens, as they sense more than see curious glances thrown at them from soldiers and commanders and Bannermen alike. Robb straightens his jacket and nods in the direction they should walk. Theon sheaths his sword and follows, hunched low. If only he could break the noses below those staring eyes. But the consequences of his actions would be Robb’s to bear. 

They leave the camp behind and pass a line of trees whispering in the breeze. 

“How is your finger, Your Grace?” inquires Theon, to break the silence.

“Good as new. Seems like someone’s trick worked.” Robb chuckles. “It might need another kiss to fully heal, though.”

“Kiss it yourself!” Theon vaults over a fallen log while the more sedate Robb steps over it. 

“What is so important on the watch guard that requires the King’s personal attention?” asks Theon, voice laced with quirky snark. “Methinks the King has other things that needs his personal attention. I wonder what, or should I say who?”

Theon wishes he could stop himself from flirting so blatantly. He cannot, it is in his nature. The resolution he made last night to not turn back is fast crumbling. His conundrum does not seem to rise to surface of his face, as Robb notices nothing out of the ordinary. 

“You have grown bolder, Theon,” says Robb. “It would not be too long before you land us both in big trouble.”

“You need wooing lessons desperately, Prince Charming. Every blushing young man wants to hear how much of a trouble they are.”

“You are a trouble that I aim to keep at arm’s length, far away to not get pricked but close enough to keep in my life. A known devil is better than an unknown devil.”

“This devil is not hear to listen to his King blaspheme. Get to the matter at hand, and tell me why you brought me here, far away from earshot?”

“I have been thinking of what we spoke of last night. It seems like that we have come to a certain understanding. It is simple, though we used many words and looks and touches to try and express it to the other. Both of us desire something more than physical, which leaves us with…” Robb looks Theon in the eye. “What does it leave us as?”

Whzzzzzzz.

Theon’s ears prick up as he hears a familiar sound pierce through the air.

The squawking of birds in the trees die as they flap away.

An arrow flies swiftly and seamless towards its target: the centre of Robb’s chest.

Theon does not think twice before darting between the bolt of death and the man he values more than life itself. 

The arrow embeds itself in Theon’s shoulder. He is thrown back with the impact and Robb catches him in his arms. Both of them see the archer before them, half hidden behind a boulder. A cape of the dreaded Lannister red falls from his shoulder. Robb lurches to the side, out of a clear line of shot, dragging the deadweight of Theon with him. They roll through the grass down a short scree of rocks. Shouts are heard in the distance as the Outer Guards notice the commotion. The archer slinks away like a snake between the stones. 

“Theon!” Robb scrambles over to where Theon lies face down, and flips him over gently. To his eternal relief, his usual cocky expression greets him.

Theon grins weakly. “It takes more than one arrow to knock me down. I will live. I would willingly lose an arm for you, My Grace.” He laughs when he realises what he has just said. 

Robb joins in, “I will not have anyone but you call me that.”

“Then I will not disappoint you.”

Robb wipes the blood off Theon’s lip, which had cut on a rock during the fall. Theon grimaces in pain, and passes out from shock. Robb cradles his head tenderly.

Then the Guards reach them and the magic of the moment is killed more fatally than an arrow. Robb is escorted back to the camp, and Theon to the sanatorium. 

\------

The unanswered question hangs frozen in the recesses of the minds of both men through the day, during the long council where Robb struggles to pay attention war strategies, logistical affairs, and worsening news from the South; and during the painful surgery where Theon grits his teeth as the arrowhead is removed from the muscle of his shoulder. 

At dusk, Robb rests his palms on the table and takes in the map spread out before him, tiny flags demarking his army against the movements of the enemy. “Has the Council come to a conclusion?” Nods of affirmation reply. “Then it is settled, we move tomorrow. A good week’s march South West, and we will base ourselves at the Keep of Capes. Dismissed.”

Robb takes a moment to collect himself before following the others out, when his mother approaches him. Since joining the army a few months back, she had been a constant presence and his support. She had gone an hour ago to see upon Theon.

“Robb, my son, how are you faring after today’s attack?”

Robb drops his guard long enough to return her quick hug. “I am fine. I was not the one hurt.”

“Yes, the Greyjoy lad.” 

“How is he?” Robb asks urgently. “I hardly got the time to see how he is doing…” his voice falters, fearing news worse than he has heard all day. 

Her look searches through him, in the only way a mother can understand their child. “He is recovering. It was only a flesh wound. The doctors were able to remove the pieces trapped inside completely, and the possibility for an infection is slim, if he is sensible and looks after himself well. He is a strong boy, that Theon.”

Robb slumps back in his chair, releasing a breath he did not realise he has been holding. 

“Go to him,” she says compassionately.

“Thank you, Mother.” Robb gets up with a spring in his step and hurries in the direction of the Sanatorium. 

Lady Stark watches him go, an understanding empathetic look in her eyes, but her forehead is creased with worry.

Robb slows down as he approaches the large white tent that acted as the place of healing for the army. It had been some time since the last open field battle, and the hurt ones had recovered in the interim. Most of the makeshift beds are empty, notes Robb as he enters. That is a good sign, he thinks. An ailing army cannot march. But he has eyes only for a tousled sandy head. He cannot see who he is looking for among the patients, even in the furthest corner. 

He gets the attention of a conscientiously working nurse with caramel skin and primly pinned back straight brunette hair. 

“Your Grace!” she says in surprise, curtseying.

“Where is Theon Greyjoy?”

“Out the back, on the benches,” she says smartly. “That is where those who have seen terrors of war they cannot forget go to rest awhile.” She adds pointedly.

Robb nods absently, and brushes past her unceremoniously. His feet pick up speed as he bursts out into leafy courtyard-like area behind the Sanatorium. It is enclosed with high netting, and no one from outside could see in, and there are no windows facing them in the building. He spots Theon at once. He leans on his elbows against a broken battle barricade dumped here as there is no use for it anymore, and there was nowhere else to put it. He stares into the distance vacantly.

Breaking into a run, Robb feels happier than he has felt in a very long time. He hugs Theon from behind, his form moulding around him perfectly as if they were meant to be. Theon jumps in surprise, then relaxes when he realises who it was. Robb nuzzles against his rough cold cheek, and Theon leans back against the warmth enveloping him. 

“How are you feeling, brother of mine?” asks Robb, using his rarest term of endearment for Theon he reserved for the most precious of moments. 

“Feeling stupid.”

“Stupid! Why you are the bravest man I have had the pleasure of knowing! You should be feeling proud of yourself!”

“I do. I feel stupid at how happy I become when you hug me.”

Robb laughs and releases him. Theon whimpers in protest. Robb smirks and leans against a spoke of the machine, facing Theon.

“I am glad that we sorted out the stalemate between us,” says Robb.

“How about a stalemate with a certain dashing prisoner we have over there in that cell?” asks Theon, cocking an eyebrow. “You do seem to have a specific taste in your men. Blond haired and square jawed with an aftertaste of treachery… me, Jamie, Lord Con, that mean-tempered stable boy back in Winterfell you could not keep your eyes off of.”

“You dare not poke fun at me, if I start with you, the list will never end, you man whore. As for Jamie, what of him? He is a disgusting man who is an enemy of my family, and it was unfaithful and dishonourable of me to even entertain any notions about him, even if in secret and an unacted upon. I have forgotten about him in all capacities besides a hostage, and that is as it should be. Why would I have room in my head for anyone else when I have given my heart fully to another?”

“Who?” asks Theon, who sometimes tends to take things too literally. 

“You, you numbskull.” Robb reaches out a hand to Theon’s cheek. 

“Oh, of course.” Theon takes a deep breath. “We still have not answered: What does it leave us as?”

Robb looks at his feet, suddenly shy. “Inamorato.”

“You know I do not know what that means! I do not read fancy books like you did.”

“A male lover, or to put it more simply, ‘to enflame with love’. I do not wish to see us inhibit ourselves to the shadows, though we must be cautious, and that goes without saying. You know what I feel about us, and I believe in what you dream of us too. Love without boundaries.”

“I do not understand how that would play out… but I am not one to back away from a challenge. There is no turning back.” He grips Robb’s forearms, and he his. 

“We are in this together like ice and fire that forge the strongest sword.” Robb places his forehead against Theon’s. “You know me better than I do myself.” 

“I value you higher than I do myself.” Theon hesitates a tense second, and pokes his head forward and kisses Robb on the mouth. It is short, a confirmation on what has been agreed upon. What it lacks in passion or pizzazz, it makes up with sincerity. 

“Will you come with me now?” asks Robb.

“I was told to sleep the night here. There is some salve or other I must apply on the wound.”

“Very well. The entire army will be on the move again, tomorrow. We are heading to the Keep of Capes. We did put our lives at risk to acquire it, I hope it was worth it. I fear a battle looms on the horizon.”

“And it is welcome. My swordarm is unhurt, and getting rusty.” 

“I was hoping for some time for us alone.”

“Privacy will be scarce while we are on the road.”

“And what after that?” Robb sighs. “It will be complicated for us.”

“But we will find away. We always do. With your steady head and my wild one, we will make mountains grovel at our feet.” Theon’s smile is grim with determination. 

“Wish I could share your optimism.”

“What will be, will be.”

“And we reap what we sow.”

“What did I say about using fancy words around me?”

Robb chuckles. “You better get used to it, there is plenty where that comes from. When a man becomes a lover, he becomes a poet too.”

Theon puts his hands over his ears and hums loudly and tunelessly.

Robb laughs so much he slides off the spoke and lands on the ground. Theon joins him, and pushes him playfully. Robb shoves him back and they tussle with a chorus of yells and giggles. Theon winces when Robb grips his shoulder, and Robb stops messing around at once. 

“Does it hurt much?” he asks gently, gingerly caressing the cloth of his shirt over the bandage. 

“I will heal, and it is not my sword arm. I will be back in full fighting form by the time we reach the Keep of Capes. But you know by now the fastest cure for a wound, do you not?”

Robb blushes and pulls down Theon’s shirt off his shoulder, and kisses the bandage lightly and lovingly. He gives a kiss on his bare shoulder for god measure, and sits back. 

“Feeling better already,” says Theon shrugging the shirt back on and flexing his fingers. “But if that Southern rat dares show his face around here again, I will end him. No one shoots an arrow at the King and gets away with it.”

“You shot an arrow at me yesterday.”

“I am the only one allowed to shoot arrows at you,” says Theon with a knowing look.

“You are incorrigible. Why do I put up with you?” Robb pauses. “Why did you say ‘again’ before?”

“Oh.” Theon scratches the back of his head. “The archer who shot at you was the same soldier who went to collect the letter from Lord Con’s attendant at the thicket.”

Robb frowns. “There is conspiracy afoot.”

“There always is.” Theon hesitantly links his fingers through Robb’s. “But I will protect you.”

“As will I.” Robb brings up their interlaced hands to his lips.

The nurse appears at the doorway into the Sanatorium. 

The two men move apart quickly, and Robs stands up. He holds out a hand to help Theon up, but the latter shrugs it away and stands on his own. 

“It is time for your medication, My Lord,” the nurse tells Theon. 

Theon nods and follows her indoors. She sits him down on his bed, removes his bandage and starts to clean the wound with the hands of a diligent expert. Robb feeling useless, approaches them carefully. He has seen many a gruesome battle wound, but the round red incision on Theon’s shoulder sickens him to the core. 

The nurse picks up the salve and rubs it in. Theon bites his lip in a hiss of pain.

“Do not worry, you are a quick healer,” says the nurse. 

Theon catches Robb’s eye. Kisses cannot heal wounds, can they?

“I thank you for the service done taking care of wounded men,” Robb says to the nurse.

“And I thank you for sending them to me, Your Grace,” she replies. “A girl like me would be on the streets if there were not enough wounded men in need of a nurse.”

Theon chortles. “She has a fiery tongue!”

“That she does. What is your name?” asks Robb.

“Talisa Maegyr, Your Grace.”

“I will remember you. Take good care of him,” Robb nods at Theon. 

“I will. He is a much better patient with you around. He was crying like a baby fresh out of its mother when we were removing the arrow.”

“Hey!” Theon huffs and crosses his arms.

Robb chuckles. He knows Theon is in safe hands. “I will see you tomorrow,” he says to Theon, bows to Talisa, who is surprised at the gesture, and walks off. 

His footsteps take him to his tent as if in a dream, as he cannot remember the last time he felt this at peace with the world. Actually, he can, it was at the Festival of Ceres. He sees his mother watching him from the distance, so he raises a hand in greeting and goes into his tent. He wonders why she did not wave back, but it has been a long day and he does not think too much about it. He slides into bed, hope in his heart after a very long time. True, so many uncertain things were at insurmountable stakes, but with Theon at his side, he will not be going down without a fight. Hard times are coming, but so will the good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Try as he might, Robb cannot fall asleep. An hour of failed attempts passes, and he gets out of bed and navigates his way through the maze of sleeping tents to the Sanatorium. He walks in, careful not to disturb any sleeping invalids. To his surprise, the rows of beds are empty except for Theon’s, and all is in darkness besides a pool of light where Talisa reads by lamplight. 

She looks up startled. She immediately hides the book, and curtseys. “He is asleep, Your Grace.”

Robb motions her to sit. “How is he?”

“He is in good health.” She sits and waits expectantly for him to leave.

“What were you reading?” he asks curiously.

“I did not believe a King would be interested in what I read,” she replies, surprised.

“It is seldom I find someone who reads in a war camp. Especially a woman.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asks heatedly.

“My apologies, I am surprised, that is all.”

“There is much a woman can learn through her books. I try and read as much as I can about politics and the war, as how else may I learn it?”

“So do I, to know of topics I was taught little of, like medicine.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Do you read? I assumed you would burn down libraries if they stood on enemy lands.”

Robb looks horrified. “Never! I am an avid reader.”

Talisa nods, understanding. She produces her book, and Robb takes it to read the title. “Isurhea Varyana: An Anthology of Poetry on Womanhood.”

“I do not suppose Your Grace has heard of –”

“Heard! I have read all of her work, though sadly this book is the only one of hers to survive in its entirety. It must have been difficult to find!”

“It was my father’s. I kept it with me after he died.” She pauses, realising what she just said. “My apologies, I am sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”

Robb had heard that statement so often it has lost its meaning. “Thank you. I find reading her poetry on family and loss to be helpful.”

“I would not have though her poems are part of the learning of a Lord’s son?”

“It is not, but I fell in love with her after finding a stray copy with my sister. She did not care for it.”

“Some people are not meant to appreciate poetry.”

Both laugh companionably at a mutual frustration with humanity. They chat for a little while longer on Isurhea Varyana’s work, about her morals and messages and metaphors and more. The wick on the candle has almost burned out when Robb gets up and bids goodbye. He walks over to where Theon lies, and asks for some privacy. Talisa nods and goes to the other end of the long hall to put her book away. Robb leans over and gently kisses Theon on the forehead. “Sleep well, and get better soon, my love.” The phrase is new and fresh and exciting on his lips. “I need you by my side. Goodbye.” He stays by the bed for a moment longer, and leaves. 

Unknown to him, Theon had been awake all along, listening to his and Talisa’s conversation. 

\------

Hard times, as certain as there coming is, are not here yet. The first week Robb and Theon spends together as couple, if what they have could be called that in reality, is for the most part exceedingly pleasant. The army marches on slowly down through sunny vales awash with chuckling brooks and fluttering butterflies. Not that the weary soldiers or their stressed commanders noticed them, but there were times when the more private and sensitive parts of Robb’s personality appreciated the thriving beauty of nature despite the death and destruction the war he called for wrought on the land. As for Theon, just a few days ago, he would have been one of the soldiers dragging feet in blind obedience to unquestionable orders. But now, maybe it is his happier state of mind or his association with Robb, he let the life giving sun and greenery worm into his head in a sweet tune. 

On the first day, Theon feels more on edge than usual. He is stuck at his post at the end of the long line of marching men, trotting horses and trundling machinery. He digs in his heels to the side of his horse. “Hyah!” The horse speeds up into a canter, passing men who dodged from his path or growled in annoyance. He reaches where Robb rides, hemmed tightly from all four sides by his Personal Guard at the middle of the cavalcade. The Guardsmen eyes him warily as he comes abreast Robb, and a Knight of Kilts watches keenly. 

Robb’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Why are you here? Is anything the matter?”

“Trust you to be such a worrywart. The day is too good to plod along like sheep. What do you say to stretching out our horse’s legs? I want some action!” 

Robb frowns. “We cannot leave in the middle of a march.”

“Pah. No one will miss us for an hour.”

Robb deliberates over the idea. He smiles at length and moves forward to whisper in the ear of the Commander of his Guard. The man nods, astonished. 

Robb throws a challenging look at Theon. “Race you!” With that, he is off, leaving Theon in a cloud of dust. Theon coughs, grins, and gives chase. Heads turn at the sound of thumping hooves, but too late: Both horses and riders are specks on the horizon.

Robb feels the tension wash off him as the ground flows under him, his horse as swift as a swallow in flight after a taste of freedom. Theon outstrips Robb like an eagle diving for the kill from high above. He throws a gloating look of victory over his shoulder, and spurs the horse onwards. He rolls back his shoulders and throws his hands in the air, holding steady with his knees. The sun on his face, the rush of wind brushing his hair back, and the steady beating heart of the horse beneath him, brings forth the freeing feeling one finds themselves in when they know there are no eyes on you for miles around. Except a pair of eyes does look at him. Robb watches Theon transform from his usual surly self to the giddy animated boy out on his first ride. He is always the more cautious one, but he too lets go of the reins and lifts his arms, his cloak filling with air to make him almost float and skim over the ground. Theon slows down to let Robb catch up, and grins at him widely. Robb’s heart skips a beat at the familiar sight at the crooked-toothed smile he had grown to think as beautiful, and smiles in return. Theon loses himself in Robb’s laughing blue eyes, and his heart soars to dizzying heights. They whoop in unison at the vast blue sky arching over them and at the rolling hills of green lapping at the flashing hooves of their horses. 

Their steeds, covered in sweat, slow down to an easy trot and lead them to a fast flowing stream. The two men jump off and tie them loosely to a branch overlooking the water. While the beasts drink and rest, Robb’s reflection joins Theon’s where he stands at the edge of the bank. No matter how frothy the churning torrent grew, the visual echoes of the lovers only grow more solid and physical. 

“It is so peaceful here,” says Robb, breathing in the rich smells of summer drifting past on the breeze, the nectar off the honeysuckle, the wetness of oncoming rain and the freshness yet unspoiled by man’s presence. 

Theon shrugs. “It is good to get away sometimes.” He takes off his boots and socks and wades in, the sharp chill of the water invigorating his tired legs. A pleasant shiver runs up his spine. He grins mischievously at Robb, who leaps back, knowing what will come next. A splash of water lands where he was just standing at.

“Spoilsport!” yells Theon. “Get in, or do I have to drag you by your toes?”

Robb chuckles, and is already pulling his footwear off. He steps into the water, and slides over some slippery waterweeds. His flailing arms brush Theon, who quickly steadies him. Robb looks down at their hands dangling side by side. 

“May I hold your hand?” he asks, shyly. “No one can see us. We are safe.”

Theon rolls his eyes. “And I guess you want us to skip down river singing, too?”

“Can you imagine me doing that?”

Theon tilts his head. “I can. You used to do that all the time.”

“That was over five years ago. Things change.”

Theon took his hand in his. They wade through the water for a short distance, cradled in a small bubble of nature that no one may enter and destroy. A flash of yellow catches Robb’s eyes, and he climbs onto the bank, pulling Theon up with him. Before them, an ancient tree stands tall, its gnarled roots half in the water and half in the soil, its serrated bark criss-crossed by the weather into a thousand intricate patterns. Its leafy canopy blocks out the sun in an eternal quiet twilight, silence only broken by the chirping of birds and the buzzing of bees, and the constant chuckle of the stream in the background. A portion of bark is torn away, revealing milky white soft wood underneath. A patch of bluish green moss grows in one corner, and tucked in it is a small yellow flower with a red heart, petals so delicate that they become transparent where light touches. It smells like the first touch of rain on parched land. Robb plucks it.

“Do not dare give that to me.”

Robb’s head whips back, chilled by the anger freezing Theon’s voice. 

“Why?” he asks nervously. 

“I haveve seen you do this many times before.” Theon’s face is darkened by a jealous scowl, a scowl Robb had seen on his face before but did not know the meaning behind until now. Not too long ago, Lords, merchants, knights and prominent families had visited the court of Winterfell now and then for various matter of importance, and they more often than not brought along a beautiful daughter or two of diverse talent and accomplishments. Robb had done his part, listened to them while they sang and danced and played at their instruments. He in turn wooed them in ways he thought he was supposed to, the usual presents of cloth and flowers and mirrors. He soon found that he made friends more easily with girls than boys, and he cherished the short lasting connections he made. He would visit public plays in the town square with them, go walking in the royal gardens, share knowledge over books in the library and annoy the castle cook until he made an interesting new dish. His father asked him sometimes if he had found a good girl he would like to marry, but he always said no. He remembers that Theon would always become distant at those times, despite how often he tried to include him in their activities. He would call them girlish and boring and stay out of his way. Sometimes he would get angry and drag him away on a horse ride. True, Robb had never met a horsemen more prolific than Theon, and he never felt more himself when the two of them were off alone conquering the wild. But why had Theon being so eager to ask him on for a horse ride today?

“Theon,” says Robb in serious tone. “Is this because I talked to Talisa yesterday?”

Theon shrugs gloomily. 

“Do not feel threatened. You know me well by now. I would never entertain the thought of looking at another human the same way I do at you.”

“Maybe. But I do not want to be your simpering doll waiting to be showered with riches either.”

“I doubt that is what Talisa wants.”

“That makes me more worried. She is unlike any girl you have come across before, maybe better suited for you. Definitely different from all the girls you have played with all your life.”

“I had no choice. It was my duty as the eldest son to receive them and attend to their pleasure while they were guests at my father’s house.”

“Do not give me that excuse.”

“I did enjoy their company. But as friends. I do not view them the same way I view you, or any other man for that matter. I do not know how to explain it better.”

“Do not bother to.”

Robb tries to remember how Theon and he got back to their usual comradery once the girl had returned to wherever her father came from. For the life of him he could not, which made him wonder if he paid enough attention to Theon’s wellbeing as he should have. Theon always seemed to come around eventually, on his own, when he got tired of being ignored. 

“You will not accept the flower, then?” asks Robb hopefully. 

“No.” Theon crosses his arms. “I do not like your methods of wooing.”

“What is your method then?”

“I cannot put it to words.”

“Show me.”

Theon grins wickedly, and says “You asked for it, Your Grace.” He grabs Robb by the front of his collar and slams him against the bark of the tree, knocking the wind out of him. Any air left in his lungs is sucked out by Theon clamping his lips over his. The kisses are wild, as if they left civilisation behind them with the cavalcade of soldiers, and urgent, as if between lovers stranded on a sinking ship. Theon grabs Robb by his hair and pushed his head back against the uneven bark. Robb opens his mouth, struggling to breath. Theon pushes his tongue in between his teeth, fighting for dominance. Theon raises his thigh between Robb’s legs, pressing hard and upwards. Robb gasps, and pushes his hands against Theon’s shoulders in retaliation. Theon pins Robb’s arms above his head, and grinds his hips slowly but insistently against him. Holding his hands in place with one hand, Theon palms Robb’s crotch with the other, smiling against his lips when he hears Robb moan. Theon rakes his teeth over Robb’s jaw and bites down on his neck as he gasps for breath. Theon moves back, observing his handiwork as a ravaged broken Robb leans against the tree trunk, his legs too weak to hold him up without support. 

“Do not tell me you did not enjoy that,” says Theon, who is short of breath himself. 

Robb composes himself and stands up, anger burning dark in his fiery eyes. “Is that what you call wooing?”

“Yes…” Theon takes a step back.

“Attacking me like you would a two bit whore on a street corner?”

“It is not like that!” cries Theon. “Is that what you think it was?”

“It felt like it. I have never felt more used.”

Theon frowns. “It is the only way I know.”

“You keep the company of whores and kitchen lads. What could I have expected?”

Robb strikes the tree trunk with a clenched fist, and presses his forehead against it. Theon hesitates and places a querulous hand on his shoulder. He is relieved when Robb does not shrug it off. 

“Look, I know I have little to say in my defence, but please hear me out,” says Theon in a pleading voice. “I do – did – not hold sex in any high regard, all my life, until, I found out just yesterday that my relationship with you could be sexual. I did not care for any of the men and women I have been with all my life. I do for you.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I want it to be different with you. I want you to enjoy it too, and I see that you clearly did not what just happened. I am sorry. I wonder if anyone I have been with ever did like my company. But then, I paid for most of them.” Theon laughs despite himself. 

Robb turns around to face him. “I must admit that some parts of that kiss was unbelievably… eye opening. I do not want a soft-fingered boy as my lover, I chose you for the rough and ready man I know you to be. What I did not like was that it seemed you almost hated me, as if you were getting back at me for something other. You did not seem to care if I was there or not, it was all about your gratification and nothing else.”

Theon nods. “I have never tried to be with someone I consider my equal.” He pauses, and continues nervously. “Would you mind if I try again?”

“Aye.”

“You cannot resist me, can you?” Theon snakes his arms around Robb’s neck and moves his face closer.

Robb lays a finger against his lips. “Not so fast.” He holds up the yellow flower, which has miraculously survived the confrontation so far. “If I am giving you a second chance, so should you.”

Theon makes a face. “What am I supposed to do with a flower? Stick it behind my ear?”

“That is a brilliant idea.” Robb flicks strands of sandy hair away from Theon’s ear and places the flower gently. “Perfect.”

“It will come off when we get back.”

“That would be wise. Keep it for now.”

Theon grumbles but lets the flower perch jauntily on his ear. 

“I will make a deal with you,” says Robb. “You will accept all the gifts I give you for the rest of the week, and genuinely treat each gift as a token of love. And you, in turn, will be more reciprocating when we are intimate.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Theon cocks an eyebrow. “It seems I got the shorter end of the stick.”

“You get to tutor an inexperienced virgin.”

Theon chuckles. “Deal.” He pulls Robb closer and looks hungrily into his eyes.

Robb gulps. “Maybe I should start?”

Theon pause and nods. Robb cups his face in his hands, and kisses him gently. Theon kisses back hesitantly. The intensity grows gradually, each mirroring the other in a charged dance of synchronicity. Wave upon wave of passion breaks against each other, and their fervent kisses match each other’s lingering longing to fever pitch. Robb’s trembling hands glide down Theon’s tingling spine and Theon’s fingers tangle in Robb’s hair. They break apart, still locked in an embrace. 

“Better?” asks Theon hopefully, dreading the answer.

Robb nods and Theon’s furrowed brow clears. 

“Was that enough for you?” asks Robb. It is his turn to dread the answer.

“For now, yes.” He leans closer and whispers in Robb’s ear. “Ready for more?”

“What are we going to do?” asks Robb fretfully. 

“Watch and learn, My Grace.” Theon drops to his knees and puts his hand on the front of Robb’s trousers. “May I?” Robb nods, and Theon unlaces the strings. Robb leans against the tree trunk, at peace this time. He sighs as Theon takes him in his mouth. Robb watches the leaves above him dance to the tune of the wind as chinks of sunlight sparkle in between. His features relax as he realises he is finally letting go of the tight ball of worry he holds in his chest. As Theon’s head bobs faster, he unravels completely. 

\------

Later, the two head back to the cavalcade, careful to adjust their return journey to match the progress made by them. Thankfully, an army marches on its stomach, and they have halted for a mid-day meal. The two of them had gone for longer than expected. 

“Hello, boys!” Lady Stark rides over to greet them as they approach the camp. “Had a good ride?”

Theon shakes in silent laughter at the implications of the word, and Robb glares at him in exasperation. 

“It was pleasant enough,” he tells his mother. “You must excuse Theon, he gets delirious when he rides in the sun.”

“May be that is why he has a flower in his hair,” says his ever observant mother. 

The comment sobers Theon, and he quickly swipes the flower off his ear. He tucks it away in his breast pocket, much to Robb’s delight. He had thought Theon would crumple and toss it away.

“Go on, then, get yourself something to eat,” says Lady Stark, and the two men ride off down the slight slope. She watches them go, and puts her chin in her hands. What she had feared has happened, and she hopes the best for both. She wonders if she should talk to Robb about Theon, as she worries he makes her son more and more reckless with each passing day. There is still time, let them have their fun. She clicks her tongue and her mare sets off after the two horses in front. 

\------

Their time on the road continues in the same manner. People will get suspicious of Robb and Theon’s continual disappearances, yet that is the only time the two may get privacy. They shifted their horse rides to early in the morning, ensuring that they are back before the marching begins. They rode off again at dusk once the fires of the camp were lit for the night. The Lords of the War Council questioned the King’s safety, given that there had already been an attack on the his life before. Robb assures that they are extremely cautious, and promised not to ride too far. He doubled his efforts of boosting morale among the troops, and coordinating between different factions to maintain unity. 

He continued to give Theon gifts: More flowers, a leaf crown that he outright refused to wear, and a stone with swirls of colour that he did like, and made useful as a whetstone for his sword and arrows. In turn, he kept his promise to explore new areas of sexual delight with Robb, always making sure to stay within the pace set by the other. Robb was an eager pupil, and they made strides that he had only dared to imagine and dream of. 

Thus, each day dissolved into the next, and the last day arrives: A day’s march from the Keep of Capes. 

Robb and Theon are on a walk in bluish dawn chill. Their horses were left behind as they had been galloped ragged. They take a narrow winding path bordered by fields of corn. The world is still asleep except for the rhythmic fall of their footsteps. Theon sneaks his hand into Robb’s, who instinctually leans on him. Their long fur coats fall over their linked arms like wings of secretive ravens, hiding it from sight. Robb picks a stalk of wheat and weaves it into a ring. He slides it onto Theon’s finger.

Theon groans. “You cannot expect me to wear this. I told you I am not your doll.”

“It is my last gift, our week ends today,” says Robb in earnest.

Theon huffs but does not remove the ring. “I have a gift for you too, and a more practical one.” He draws a small dagger from his belt, lithe and swift and cunning. “It was once my father’s and I know its new master will be more worthy of bearing it.”

“Thank you,” says Robb, adding it to his belt. “This will come in handy.”

They walk a few more paces and reach a ridge. The path dips into a vale below, and checkered fields open up before them, glowing blue in the pre-dawn light. 

“Imagine, one day all this land will be yours to rule,” says Theon in awe, his breath forming misty wraiths in the cold air.

“One day? It already is.” Robb breaks into a jog to warm up. He has to retract his hand to do so, and Theon falls into step besides him. After a hundred paces or so, they slow down. Robb links their hands again. 

“Not while the Lannister boy Jeoffrey still calls himself the King of the Seven Kingdoms,” says Theon. 

“Time will decide that.” 

“Do you think Lord Stark would have wanted a separate Kingdom in the North?”

“Not if his friend Lord Robert Baratheon was still on the throne. But if I am to be honest – and you cannot repeat these words in anyone’s ears – I do not think Father would have wanted this. He is an honourable peace loving man, and it would break his heart to see the realm divided into so many factions fighting for a Throne he helped to stabilise.”

“Then why did you chose to call yourself the King of the North?”

Robb huffs apprehensively. “The people decided that.”

“But you said yes.”

“The situation today is very different from what my Father knew or ever envisioned. Sometimes I have to make decisions that differ from his point of view. The North and South have always been separate in people’s minds, even if not on a map. It must return to that which will make the citizens happier. Happier folk till the land, work their craft and prosperity will return. It will be the best if the realm is divided into two Kingdoms.”

“Only two? What about the other five? The Iron Islands? Do they not matter?”

“I have not thought that far.” 

“It might do well to think. My father is an impatient man, and worse, a vindictive one. If The Iron Islanders decide that they want to be independent again, you will have a rebellion on your hands.”

“Which side will you take then?”

“Yours,” says Theon without a moment’s hesitation. “My father is my father only by name. I have no love for him. Your father was more a father to me than he ever was. I am the heir to The Iron Islands, and that is a heritage I aim to pursue one day, but not at the expense of our bond.” Theon looks down at his feet sweeping through fresh cut grass. He hopes that he would be strong enough to hold onto his words if a moment of decision does arrive.

“Are your still bitter about what your father did?”

“He turned his back on me. He always did, my brothers were real men in his eyes. Any regard or affection I had for him died the day he handed me over to your father. One would think I would hate your father for quenching my father’s rebellion, but I hated more Pyke and its castle I once called my home. No one gave me a moment’s notice, I had no one to call my friend, and all my siblings grew with the sea in their blood while I preferred horses and the bow. It was a welcome change when your father took me as his ward. And…” he pauses to nudge Robb on the side. “I would never have met you otherwise, Brother.”

“And look we are now! You were always my favourite brother.” Robb pecks him on the cheek.

“Really?” Theon could not believe his ears. “Why me? Surely Jon or Bran…”

“They may be my brothers by blood, but you are my brother by heart. I believe you chose your brothers at arms, not get born into brotherhood. You were by my side through the darkest years of my journey to becoming a man, and for that reason alone, I know you know me more than I know myself.”

“I hope other blood brothers do not do what we do.” Theon kisses Robb back.

“I am sure they do, in some Lordly house or other.”

“At least we will not have bastards running around making claims to the Throne!”

Robb laughs and carelessly throws an arm over the shorter man’s shoulders. Theon lifts his own hand across his chest to grip the other’s hand. They walk in comfortable silence.

“My father was so worried about me growing up to be a man. Always said I was soft.” Theon chuckles. “I wonder what he would say if he could see us now.”

“He better kneel before his King and bless me, just like his son does.”

Theon roars with laughter. “That will be the day lambs win battles against lions! What would your father say if he could know? As I suppose my father would kill us both if he finds out, and we will very well be joining your father in the shadow lands.”

“This is no joking matter,” says Robb sternly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “I do not know what my father will say. He has a policy that that which is not seen is not known. Unless it is a matter of honour. Which will be the case as I am his eldest son and carrier of the family name, and you are the heir of a man he despises. His judgement may turn against us under these circumstances, but apart from that, I think he may turn a blind eye.”

“You are still concerned of what your father thinks of you, are you not?”

“I still do find myself thinking ‘what will my father do?’ whenever I make a decision.”

“I still fear that I will become a snivelling ten year old boy again if I come face to face with my father.”

“The greatest burden a son must bear is to live in his father’s shadow.”

“I wish my father no longer casts a shadow. The wrong father was killed.”

Robb gasps in horror and stops, turning Theon roughly by the shoulders to face him. “Beg forgiveness from the gods for uttering such damned words.”

Theon shakes his head stubbornly. “No. I tell it as it is. The world lost a great man when your father was murdered in cold blood by a mindless tyrant, while my father sits in his seat cackling at the ill-gotten chance to lay waste to the North during a time of chaos and mourning.”

Robb sighs. “Fathers are trouble, dead or alive.”

“No truer words have been spoken. But fear the alive ones more, there is only so much the memory of a dead one can do.”

Before Robb could stop himself, tears cluster at the tail of his eyes like quicksilver in the creases of a deep dark mine underground. Theon pulls him into a hug and holds him tight while he cries into the crook of his neck. He rubs gentle circles onto his back and murmurs comforting words in his ear. Gone is his prior hesitation of not knowing what to do when Robb hurts from his father’s death. He realises all he has to do is to be there for him, lend a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. 

Robb lifts his heads and wipes his eyes with a grimy hand. “I am sorry that you have to see me like this.”

“It is only human to feel sad,” says Theon with a shrug. “And what good am I as your lover if cannot be there for you when you are sad?”

“Thank you,” says Robb, and means it. 

“I know it can be hard, but over time, the pain of your father’s passing would dull to a cherished memory that will give you the strength to move forward. That is more or less what I have done.”

“And what about the father that birthed you?”

“I prefer to not think of him at all.”

“How do you keep so much hate locked up inside?”

“That is the way of the men of The Iron Islands, we trade feelings for hard metal. So, no, I will not be crying on your shoulder today, my tears froze a long time ago.”

Robb brushes his lips against Theon’s gently. “I wonder if I can thaw that icy heart.”

“Time will see to it,” Theon murmurs against his lips. “That and standing by your side as long as I have strength in my bones.”

They resume walking, sneaking glances at each other to make them smile. The Eastern sky takes on a pinkish purple hue, heralding a new day. 

Theon points at a wooded hill not far off. “We can make a quick detour through there.” His voice drops low and tickles Robb’s ear. “I still have to teach you how to... consummate our brotherly affection.”

“Now is not the time,” says Robb softly.

Theon nods, understanding, and does not press for more. They walk on for a while longer, and then turn back. Theon suggests a different route, and Robb agrees. They come across a small cliff of about ten feet, and the meadow below them stretch to where the army is camped. They stand at the edge, and the first light of day bathes them in a pastel orange glow. 

“Remember that cliff behind the castle at Winterfell?” asks Theon, grinning.

“Yes,” says Robb with a scowl. “You used to pretend to push me over it.”

“But I always pulled you back.”

“And you used to jump on me from behind!”

“You still fall for that!” Theon pulls at Robb’s cheek to get him to smile.

“It is not fair!” Robb crosses his arms. “You were always better at teasing me. Why do you never fall for my tricks?”

“The only falling I do is fall in love with you,” says Theon gruffly, burying his face on Robb’s shoulder in embarrassment. 

“Dammit, Theon.” Robb lays his cheek on Theon’s hair. “You are not allowed to say things like that.” 

“I do not usually,” says Theon, shifting away, his cheeks flushed. “But the more time I spend with you, I find myself saying the darndest things.”

Robb’s chest aches, but not with pain, only its opposite force. “I think I got more besotted with you every time you kicked my feet from under me.”

“I was a terrible nuisance, was I not? What else did I do to you?”

“You used to suddenly vanish during our walks and leave me stricken with worry, and turn up as calm and cool as a cat back at the castle. You are lucky I am a patient man.” Robb grips Theon's shoulders. “Promise me you will never disappear on me.”

“Not if I can help it.” Theon looks up with a face hardened with resilience.

“We better make our way back. I can hear the camp stirring.” Robb jumps down the embankment. He stumbles on lose rocks and wet grass, and slides to a halt. He looks back over his shoulder. “Come on, you are slower than a snail!”

There is no reply.

Robb hoots. 

Silence. 

He scans the ledge above him, but sees no one there. 

The wake up bugle call is heard in the distance, like a premonition carried by an indifferent wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Theon.

The names echoes in panicked screams through Robb’s pounding ears. 

He scrambles up and heaves himself over the lip of the cliff. Theon seems to have disappeared without a trace. Robb opens his mouth to shout out his name, but snaps shut when he sees footprints in the mud, easily identifiable as Theon's by his loping gait. He appears to have been running fast. Fearing the worst, from kidnapping to desertion, Robb follows the trail, his hand on the pommel of his sword. 

He hears a cry of pain and the clash of metal, and dashes towards the noises. He rounds an overgrown bush and a chilling sight meets his disturbed gaze.

A southern soldier spasms on his back on the ground, his mouth and a gash on his neck weep blood as red as his cloak. Theon’s sword lies next to him, painted crimson. The master of the sword struggles a foot away, locked in the firm grip of a giant mountain of a soldier. Blind fury sears through Robb. With no regard for his own safety, Robb leaps forward, shouting, “Do not hurt him.” His sword points at Theon’s captor, a deadly glinting white line in the sun.

Theon shakes his head violently at him, eyes wide with barely controlled alarm. Before Robb realises the trap, two men grab him from behind, one twisting his sword arm back and the other kicking him in the back of his knees. Robb crumples to the ground with a muffled cry, dropping his sword. Theon launches forward helplessly, and gets his neck crushed by merciless black-gloved hand. 

“Pleased to meet you again, Your Grace,” a mocking voice cuts through the unsettled air. A figure in red appears, stepping into the light from the shade of an overhanging rock. His face twists into a broken smile, his face carved in half by a jagged scar. Theon snarls, recognising the man who has been stalking them for so long. Robb watches the interaction, and realisation dawns on his puzzled face as he deduces whom the man must be. 

“Welcome, Robb Stark. Your faithful little boy walked right into our trap!” continues the man, throwing a flippant look at Theon. “And I was right, where he is, the King of the North is not far behind.” His voice drips with sarcasm like the sticky poisonous sap of a gum tree. He grips Robb by his hair jerks his head back brutally. “I’m going to be rewarded highly for capturing your pretty face.” He spits, and a glob of saliva lands on Robb’s nose and slowly dribbles down his face. Robb does not flinch, and glares back steadily, undaunted. 

Theon growls, “You dare do that again –”

“And you will what? Join the dead man?” The scar faced man gestures at the dying man, who utters a final guttural mutter and stops fighting for his life. 

“Who do I have the pleasure of talking to?” asks Robb, his voice a steady even keel in a storm. 

“Ever the polite charmer,” the man stands tall. “You can call me Thobb.”

“Thobb?” The name turns to a snort of disgust in Theon’s mouth. “What in the Seven Hell’s kind of name is that?”

Thobb springs forward, grabs the dagger out of Robb’s belt and holds it at Theon’s throat. He leans forward. “Open your mouth again, and…” he smiles, mirroring the thin red line appearing across Theon’s neck.

Robb forces himself to breathe calmly. “Thobb, what do you want of us? I am ready to talk.”

Thobb laughs scornfully. He hands the dagger to the giant, who continues to hold it against Theon’s throat. Thobb turns leisurely to fix his scornful look on Robb. “Talk? What use do I have for your words? I am here to deliver you to Lord Tywin Lannister and my duty is fulfilled. Your touching pleas and fancy words will fall on barred ears and not move me.”

“But –” began Robb

Thobb slapped him across his face, leaving a burning red handprint. “Gag him.”

One of Robb’s captors stuffs a dirty rag in Robb’s mouth and secures it behind his head. Robb does not struggle, eyes on Thobb, while Theon grunts and fights against the giant’s hold on him, only getting his neck nicked for his trouble.

Thobb motions to the two soldiers, and they drag Robb away. 

Theon strains towards him. “What of me?”

“You will only slow us down. Kill him.”

The giant smiles dully, grunting his assent.

Tormented blue eyes meet steely grey ones, a connection too ingrained to be shattered.

The giant lifts the dagger.

Suddenly, Theon grins and whistles sharply, two high notes. A sign of distress, speeding through the air in search of help. Robb’s ears prick up. A call he knew very well, but one only he can use. 

The giant looks around confused. So do the two soldiers holding onto Robb, who stop in surprise. 

“There is no one to hear you. Hurry up!” Thobb snaps his fingers.

He spoke too soon. A streak of dark grey fur fills the clearing, sharp fangs bared. The soldiers behind Robb let out ear splitting screams as their throats are ripped out from behind. They fall back dead. Robb stumbles forward onto his hands and knees. Grey Wind’s snout butts him, a wet tongue lapping his face. Robb holds onto his powerful neck and stands up. His finger points at the giant and the Direwolf springs at him, eyes glazed with blood lust. The giant slashes forward with the dagger, and Grey Wind bites his wrist. The dagger falls. The giant drops to the ground, cradling his injured hand and sobbing in pain and shock. Theon wriggles free of his grasp and snatches up his sword from where it had fallen on the ground. He springs up with a cry of anger and runs it through the giant’s chest, and his keening is cut off abruptly. Robb clicks his tongue and the Direwolf turns to face Thobb. The scarred scared man steps back in haste, stumbles and falls. He holds up a hand in a fruitless attempt of defence, his bravado ripped to shreds. Grey Wind places a powerful paw on his chest and lowers its gaping maw, flecks of frothy saliva trickling in hissing strands onto his face. 

Theon cuts off Robb’s gag with a flick of the tip of his sword. They stand shoulder to shoulder gazing down at the whimpering man at their feet. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” asks Robb, his voice rumbling like thunder with the hint of lightening to follow.

“Speak!” snarls Theon, poking Thobb’s foot with his sword. 

“Kill me.” Thobb’s voice is a whisper.

“Gladly!” says Theon stepping forward. 

“No.” Robb crouches down and grips Thobb’s hair and turns his head to him. “You will run, run like the wind, and tell your Lord that the King of the North is not someone to be trifled with.”

“You are too kind and forgiving. That will be your end.”

“That is my business. Yours is to run like a dog with its tail between its legs.” Robb pats Grey Wind’s broad haunches, and it backs away, panting. 

Thobb staggers up. “You cannot always hide behind your swords and wolf.” He turns and sprints away, limping slightly from the wound in his foot, not looking back for at least a furlong. 

Theon waits till he has blended into the woods before rounding on Robb. “Why did you do that? We should have killed him the chance we got!”

“Yes, and we will have another dead body to add to the pile. Now we send word of our power, and a reputation that precedes you to frighten your enemy is a stronger force than a hundred thousand swords.”

Theon sighs in frustration. “You are correct. I did not think of it that way.”

“I am always the tactician.”

“But I fear we have made a vicious enemy.”

“You win some you lose some. I was planning on sending back the giant, but someone thought better than to let him live.”

Theon looks down, shame faced. Robb claps him on the back. “What is done is done, and wild horses cannot pull back the past. Let us pick up the pieces and make the best of it. And…” Robb lifts up Theon’s chin with a finger. “Who had the bright idea of calling for Grey Wind? I went and got my stupid mouth gagged.” Theon blushes. “Now we really should be getting back, they probably noticed we are missing.”

Robb and Theon set about digging a pit for the bodies, the latter grumbling that the Lannister rats deserve to rot on open ground. They drag the bodies into a hollow, and cover the mound with dead leaves and dried twigs. 

“I still wish we could add the corpse of the rat that got away,” says Theon grimly. 

“He will meet a fate fitting his words and deeds one day,” says Robb, and Grey Wind growls. 

“Well, we have a persona vendetta against him now.”

“He is like the worm in a rotten apple that destroys us.”

“Not if we get him first.” Theon cleans his sword in the grass and sheaths it. Robb picks up his own unbloodied one and slides it into his scabbard. Theon twirls the dagger in one hand and looks at Robb questioningly. 

“I despise a blade used against you,” says Robb.

“The dagger is not to blame, it is the hand that wielded it.” 

Robb nods and reaccepts the dagger. “May it stay in friendly hands.”

With Grey Wind leading the way, they head back to the camp. 

Robb looks at the beast before him with a mixture of fondness and caution. “It was dangerous for you to whistle for Grey Wind. He only answers to me. The last man who tried to call him lost his arm from the shoulder.”

Theon shrugs. “I think your Direwolf trusts me.” He fearlessly runs his hand over its back, and Grey Wind growls but does not pull away. 

Robb cannot mask his surprise. “I have never seen him act this way with anyone else, not even the rest of my siblings who have Direwolves of their own.”

“I might not be a Stark, but he knows his master trusts me.”

“That I do. But do not tempt Grey Wind again.”

“I will if you are in danger. If there is one thing man and beast agree on, it is to keep you safe.”

“Appreciate it. And I will do my part for you.”

“It is usually the right hand man who protects the King with his trusty sword.”

“There are other ways I offer you protection.”

Theon frowns. “Have you been telling the men to lay off me?” 

Robb is silent for a guilty second. “Yes.”

“I told you I can fight my own battles.”

“Yes, but you have enough troubles on your shoulders without having to deal with their jibes. You are one of us, even if you were not born at Winterfell and I will not have you treated any less.”

“But you do realise the more you single me out with attention, the more a target I become?”

“You want me to stop showering you with attention?”

“Oh, gods no.” Theon pulled Robb in for a brief kiss. “Just maybe not act as a concerned mother hen over me? I get along fine with most of the soldiers, and the Lords keep themselves off my path, so you do not have to go out of your way to warn them not to treat me rough. Telling them not to is as good as asking them to.”

Robb sighs. “Why can they not treat you the same way they do me? Robb Stark is a reverent prayer on countless lips, and Theon Greyjoy a curse.”

Theon shrugs. “That is the way it is. No one ever said my name with anything other than hatred.”

Robb grips him by his shoulders and faces him fully. “Theon Greyjoy,” he says, the words something in between a whisper and a roar. It was gentle and fierce, and spoke of tender affection and passionate reassurance. Robb had often thought that no one called Theon by his first name, so he used it as often as he could. Theon did not realise it at first, but slowly grew to recognise the familiarity and intimacy behind it, and his heart finally acknowledged that someone did care for him genuinely, and called him by his name like no other. Now, as he stands still, his eyes seeking for any trace of mockery in Robb’s eyes, his heart sighs. There is none. He feels more a real person than he ever felt before, his own individual that dared be unique. All it takes is for someone to give him that respect, and Robb was the only one who does.

“Thank you,” says Theon simply. They resume walking. Grey Wind has already covered a hundred paces ahead of them, and sits back patiently. 

“Did you name Grey Wind after me?” teases Theon. 

“No,” retorts Robb. “I happen to like the name, that is all.”

“I wonder why,” says Theon, and tosses his head. A line of read flashes on his neck.

“How is your throat?” asks Robb, running a thumb along the cut. Theon’s Adam’s apple bobs at his touch.

“A mere scratch. I have been told I am a fast healer.” Theon tilts his head back and offers his neck. “Get on with it.”

“So demanding,” complains Robb, and kisses along the angry red line. “There.”

Theon wriggles his eyebrows teasingly. “We can still continue. You cannot stop with one kiss.”

“No, Theon, no. We need to stop this habit of getting wounded all the time.”

“Then we need to the stop this habit of exchanging kisses all the time.” Theon chuckles and kisses Robb on the forehead. “There, I hope I cured your unbelievable need to be right all the time.”

“But then who is going to stop you from ending up dead in a drain?”

“True. Maybe I need to try being more sensible.”

“Not too much. I need someone to make sure I have some fun.”

“Oh, that is my speciality.”

“Keep your hands to yourself, Theon, we are nearing the camp now.”

“Grrr.”

\------

That evening, the War Council meets for the last time on the road, before heading up the mountains to the Keep of Capes. Robb stands at the head of the table, a crease between his eyebrows, with the Councilmen gathered around. Theon lounges in his usual spot at the back, Talisa’s fresh white bandage round his neck. Robb’s voice falls silent as he finishes the report of the attack that morning.

The Commander of his Personal Guard faces Robb. “Your Grace must be careful. It is terribly unwise to travel with only one other sword at times like these. You have been attacked twice, under similar circumstance, and as far as we know, by the same man. Your rides at dawn and dusk have caused us great worry, fearing for your safety, and we are proven right. No doubt the enemy discovered the time you were at your weakest. The audacity to send only five men to capture a King is unbeleivable! Pardon my words, but Your Grace has been rash and reckless.”

Rob nods, accepting his fault. “I will ride alone no more. Once we are settled at the Cape of Keep, we will be safe.”

“Yes, the stone walls offer more protection. But my men will accompany you at all time when you travel beyond them. I would like to appoint a guard to be by your side at all times, even at night. We cannot risk any more negligence. Who would you pick?”

Robb is silent for a few thoughtful seconds. “This man must be able to protect me at all times, match my every step, be present at every important meeting.” He scratches his chin. “He must be someone who has earned my unblemished trust. I have much regard for your men, Commander, but I think that spot is already filled: Theon Greyjoy.”

All eyes whip to the furthest corner, where Theon, caught by surprise, quickly slaps on a look of trustworthiness. At least he hoped he looked trustable, though his usual expression projected the exact opposite. 

The Commander frowns, and would have objected, if a loud hand had not thumped on the table, and a sonorous voice filled the room: “I will not have more of this!”

It is Lord Greatjon Umber, who leans menacingly over the table. “I do not trust any son of Lord Greyjoy.”

“Is that not up to me to decide?” asks Robb in a voice dangerously low.

“Is it not curious that both attacks were made when he, and only he, was in the vicinity? How did they know of your exact position? Even your own Guard did not know!”

Robb’s eyes narrowed.

Theon calmly pushes himself off the tent pole and saunters over to the table. “Are you accusing me of treachery? Of revealing to the enemy of the King’s movements?”

“Is that what you name yourself guilty of?” Lord Umber can hardly keep his vitriol out of his voice.

“I have nothing to hide.” Theon crosses his arms casually. 

“If you have any evidence of his so called crimes, then bring it forward,” says Robb severely. 

“I have none.” Lord Umber sits back. “I will let the circumstances speak for themselves.”

“Indeed. I will not hear of this again.” Robb lets his eyes drift around the room. “From anyone. I trust Theon with my life, and if it was not for him, I would not be alive today, or worse, under enemy chains. I do not have to defend his honour, let his actions speak for themselves, and leave your prejudices in the dust.” He motions Theon to come stand beside him, and the latter does so. “Are there any more objections?”

The room is so silent that the sound of an ant’s footfall can be heard.

“Good. Now, continue with the rest of the agenda.”

The War Counsel continues with their discussion, wrapping up any details for the last leg of their march. 

Theon stands innocently next to Robb. “You have done it now,” he says mysteriously. 

“What?” hisses back Robb.

Theon gives him a knowing look and turns to face the room again. Robb sighs and focuses his attention back on the matters at hand, which were going smoothly as he expected. What he did not expect was for Theon’s hand to sneak under his cloak and cup one of his ass cheeks. He stiffens, and shoots Theon a glare, who pretends he is oblivious to what is going on. To do anything was to call attention to themselves, and Robb grits his teeth and manages to make it through the rest of the discussion. It was not an easy task, what with Theon’s probing hands messaging the hard muscle. Robb hopes his one word replies to questions directed at him would mask the growing inappropriate situation in his trousers. He dismisses the council at last, and everyone files out.

When the last one has slipped through the tent flap, Robb grabs Theon’s hand and firmly moves it away.

“That was wild! We were in public, someone might have seen us,” cries Robb.

“But no one did!” 

“I am going to make you regret this!” 

“I hope you do. Tonight. In your bed.”

Robb gasped. “What do you mean?” 

“Me? Your Personal Guard? Was that not all a ruse to have me in your bedchamber every night for as long as we are at The Keep of Capes?”

“I hope you do not think that I am that shallow. You are the man I trust the most.”

“I am honoured by the title, Your Grace. And do not worry, I will keep you safe and warm tonight.” Theon winks and struts out of the tent, swirling his cloak to give Robb a good look at his posterior, knowing that was his weakness.

Robb groans. What had he got himself into?

\------

A millennia ago, molten lava cooled and solidified into a long range of mountains, bearing the name The Spine. It is a high wall of rock, most of the peaks being of the same height and flat-topped. Vegetation is sparse, and it is bone chillingly cold for most of the year. Vultures circle the sky, their screeches mingling with howls of coyotes that haunt the slopes. The range is unbroken except for one narrow pass, known as The Howling Pass, as the wind funnelling through it keens in a constant wail that would strike dread in the ear and heart of even the most seasoned traveller. It is a natural defence coveted by any army, and for this reason alone, a strong keep was built on one side of the pass: The Keep of Capes. Made of igneous rocks cut from the mountain itself, it is indestructible even by dragon fire. The Keep is solid structure, square and soaring skyward. Vines of ivy scramble up to the lead slats of the roofs, as if clutching the blue grey rocks together. A courtyard surrounds it on three sides, the fourth backing into the mountain itself, which rears protectively over the keep like a petrified wave of stone. As sturdy outer wall runs around the perimeter topped by battlements, and a deep and black moat laps its still waters at the base of the wall. A wooden drawbridge, worn by many feet and the weather stretches across. The Knights of Kilts call it their home, and they guard the mountain pass in times of peace, and close it during times of war. It is to this desolate but invaluable location the Army from the North marches to at dusk today. 

The usually grim stronghold has taken on a semblance of cheerful welcome tonight. Blazing bonfires dot the path up to the broad doors wrought with iron, casting shapeless shifting shadows across Robb’s uncertain face as his horse stumbles up the loose stone path. Theon’s downcast face hides his bittersweet emotions, for the Keep of Capes reminds him of his home of Pyke. Lady Stark urges her mare next to Robb’s horse, remembering the last time she was here as a young girl many moons ago.

They reach the gates, and the drawbridge lowers. It hits the bank of the moat with a reverberating thud, and a man, no shorter than seven feet, greets them in a voice that makes the very stones tremble. He is Sir Gorak Battlehelm, the Protector Knight of the Keep. He is resplendent in a cloak made of vulture feathers, and the iconic woven checked kilt that defined them as the Knights of Kilts. “Welcome to our humble Keep, Your Grace, we keep you well fed and guarded here.” His belly bounces as he laughs at his own joke. 

“We are honoured by your kind hospitality, good and noble host.” Robb dismounts and bows low. 

“The pleasure is ours,” Sir Battlehelm smiles jovially and throws a heavy arm around Robb’s shoulders. Robb hunches slightly, but does not cave under the weight. 

Weary men plod past, glad to be sleeping under a roof again. 

“My soldiers are tired,” says Robb.

“Aye, and my kinights await to greet and entertain them,” says Sir Battlehelm. “And so will you be. Come in to take your place at my table.”

As the last of the men finally enter the Keep, Robb and his retinue follow in to the heart of the building. The soldiers are lead to the dinning room, where long tables laden with food await them. Robb and his retinue are ushered towards the Great Hall, the largest room in the Keep, and undoubtedly the grandest and most venerated. Rich tapestries hang on the walls, and from the high ceiling. Frozen images of feats of valour and miracles come to live in colourful threads on the canvases. Sconces of fire flicker in the ever-present draught.

Theon ducks his head low. The opulence and majesty of the Great Hall suffocated him, and there is no room for him there. He turns to follow the soldiers towards the dinning hall. But that is until he senses more that saw another person troubled as him. Robb looks on in through the Great Hall, and the vast empty space within makes him feel small. Winterfell had nothing to compare. How would he hold court and council here during his stay? He tightens his shoulders, and tries to dredge up reserves of courage. He can do this. 

“We can do this,” whispers Theon stepping besides him. 

“You do not have to do this,” whispers back Robb.

“We are in this together, are we not?”

Robb smiles gratefully. 

They step forward as one.

\------

“I have a boon to ask of you,” says Sir Battlehelm. Dinner is over, a parade of dishes as endless and splendid as the Hall itself. The lively atmosphere dwindles as the meal comes to an end.

“It will be granted if it is within reason and my power,” replies Robb.

“My daughter will marry one of my Knights tomorrow evening. I will appreciate it greatly if you would officiate the wedding.”

Robb blinks in surprise, while Theon swallows a snigger a few seats down. 

“I have no prior experience in this, and I am sure there are many men more worthy of this honour.”

“It is my daughter’s wishes.”

“Robb,” whispers his mother from next to him. “It is a gesture of goodwill.”

Rob nods. “Please tell the Lady I will be delighted to conduct the ceremony.”

\------

The Keep is asleep. Late night stars burn bright and fair over the square stone structure looming over a paved courtyard, and one by one the torches are snuffed out into puffs from windows. One light remains.

By now, Robb is used to ending the day in a state of dream like exhaustion. He was given the largest room in the Keep, and although he protested to an embarrassing degree, Sir Battlehelm would not hear of anything less. It is a handsome affair, with a vaulted stone ceiling decked with pennants and tall slit-like windows on the walls, and a bed large enough to house an army covered in a bear skin rug. Two lanterns hang from wooden beams, casting a warm homely yellow glow around the room. He stands in front of a mirror after a week’s absence of seeing his full reflection. He notices that he has grown, almost unnoticeably. A new wrinkle or two on sunburnt skin, shoulders prouder and broader, and eyes that stare back resolutely. He sighs, wondering whether he would be able to get back the year he lost to the war, or the years that might come ahead. 

He hears the door open and close behind him, and a slightly nervous cough.

Robb turns around, and sees Theon in a voluminous silver and blue kilt hanging over his hips. Robb’s face breaks into a smile as Theon twirls. 

“Looks good on me, eh?”

“You have worn it all wrong. Here, let me put it right.” Robb walks over and pulls the kilt around, as Theon had put it on backwards. Theon grins and stands still as Robb expertly arranges the pleats and adjust the belt to have tassels hanging down the side. “I did not know you would like to wear a kilt,” comments Robb.

“It is my motto try out as many new things as I can when I get the chance.” Theon stands back and preens.

“Aye… but…”

Theon pokes Robb on the chest. “Do not tell me you are the type of man to be frightened by the notion of a man wearing what looks like a skirt?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then what is this all about?”

Robb traces his toe alone a groove on the stone floor. “I wish I could be as bold and carefree as you are.”

Theon shrugs. “I wore a kilt, not stalked the halls in a dragon scale dress. People look to you see if a hair is out of place in your beard. We are bold in different ways, and careful in more. I flaunt criticism, and it is your chain. But it does need to be within the walls of your bedchamber.” Theon runs a hand down from Robb’s shoulder to his fingertips. “You can breathe easy here, with me.”

Robb exhales and relaxes.

“But not me,” continues Theon. “As your criticism is the only words I bow to.” He leaps onto a windowsill and looks out off to the battlements. “Can I pass off for a Knight of Kilts?”

“Not nearly honourable enough, you imposter,” says Robb with a chuckle. 

“Well, then can I pass off for your clandestine lover?”

“Hm… I am not convinced yet.”

Theon pulls his tunic over his head seductively. He steps down off the ledge in one sinuous movement and strikes a pose, hands on hips.

“Perfect.” Robb blushes. “The figures on the tapestries down in the Great Hall better be weeping.”

“I can imagine your likeness up on the walls.”

“I will be, if I win a battle here.”

“You should get prepared for the portrait. Want me to get you a kilt too? Or maybe you would like to try on this?” He ran his hands teasingly along the waistline of his belt. 

“Are you even wearing anything underneath?”

“Want to find out?”

Robb laughs and turn back to the mirror. A candle flickers in the depths of its reflections. “I think I will pass tonight.” He begins unbuckling his jacket when arms encircle his torso, and Theon’s face appears above his shoulder in the mirror. From the heat running its fingers up and down his body, Robb can tell that Theon is already naked.

“Let me,” whispers Theon. The last strap of leather slides out of its buckle, and Theon pulls the jacket off Robb’s shoulders. He unlaces his tunic, pulls it over his head and drops it on the ground. Theon’s touch is careful and gentle, a touch he reserves for Robb and him only. His nervous fingers tangle in the strings of Robb’s trousers, and Robb smiles in encouragement at their reflections. Theon gulps and grins away his discomfort, and resumes with a steadier touch. The remaining garments join the pile, until not one stich of clothing remains between Robb’s tingling skin and the warm night air. Theon’s fingers lightly brush over the downy hairs and goosebumps dot over Robb’s skin as he sways in the throes of burning sensations. 

Theon kisses the back of his neck. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” murmurs Robb, as a thumb flicks over one of his nipples.

“For playing the fool at the War Council today.”

“It was the highlight of my whole day.”

Theon chuckles. 

“But we better keep it in the bedchamber from now on.” Robb lifts Theon’s fingers to his lips.

“We are in the bedchamber.” 

“So we are.”

“I have never been silent about this request, but I would like to take the next stride.” Theon closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Robb’s hair. 

“So do I.” Robb turns around slowly. Their eyes meet longingly, mutual feelings mirrored.

Theon takes Robb’s hand and leads him to their bed. They know each other in every sense of the word, but this is new territory for both, and there is sudden shyness and sudden uncertainty between them. Theon, as usual, takes the lead, and with a soft kiss, guides Robb down to the bed. Trusting him fully, Robb sinks into the soft sheets as Theon climbs on top of him. Theon kisses him again gently as their limbs intertwine. 

“I…” Robb falters.

“If you think you are nervous, I am more,” says Theon honestly, his fingers threading through Robb’s trembling ones.

“You have done this before.”

“True, but not with you, and that makes all the difference.” 

“It scares me that this is something I do not know of, and I have to depend on you.”

“It scares me that this is one thing I know more than you of, and I used to hate myself for that –”

“What?” asks Robb in concern.

“I always felt like a whore compared to you. You were pristine, and I soiled.”

“Do not say that. Your past does not lessen you in my eyes.”

“I know. That is why I finally feel like sex can be a celebration more than a degeneration.”

Robb kisses him repeatedly. “Never think that again. I am glad you are my first, I would not have anyone else.” He takes a deep breath and whispers. “I am ready.”

Theon bumps his nose against Robb’s. “Just relax, and let me be your guide.”

The candle at the window burns brighter than the stars through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Robb’s eyes shoot open.

It is morning, and a single warm shaft of sunlight passes through the lattice woodwork above the windows to fall directly on his face. The coo of pigeons can be heard from the rafters. He jumps as a cold hand caresses his shoulder. He rolls over, and sees Theon’s smirking face, a smug look painted across it. 

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Brrr. Why are your hands so cold all the time?”

“My blood runs cold. A gift from my father.” He smiles ruefully. “How are you feeling after last night?”

“Equal parts sore and soaring.”

“Hm… a diplomatic answer as usual. Why sore?”

“You stabbed me with your cock, you ass!”

“Well you wanted me to be an ass, but someone finished too quick, remember? And as your faithful right hand man I was more than happy to step up to the challenge – or step in, rather – given the situation.”

“It was my first time, dammit!”

“And an admirable attempt.” 

“Get that cocky grin off your face, I do not know whether to punch you or kiss you.”

“You did plenty of both last night! It made sense to let the more experienced lover to be in charge, did it not? I can honestly say this is one of the best encounters I have ever had in bed.” Theon taps his nose with a conspiratory air. 

Robb groans and buries his face in his pillow. “Do not compare me to all the people you have been with. I am afraid I measure up poorly.”

“Technically you do rank low,” says Theon, and Robb whacks him on the head with a pillow.

“You take that back!”

“Ow! I said technically!” Theon pins Robb’s arms down. “Do you know what makes it the best?” He kissed him fiercely. “The soaring. I finally slept with someone I loved, and I can finally say I fucked among the stars.”

Robb smiles in glee. “Does it help that I am the best specimen of manhood you have come across?”

“Who has an ego now?” Theon chuckles and kisses him again. “But I will let that pass, as it is true.” He pushes himself off Robb and stands up. He is dressed in his usual attire, but he has exchanged his trousers for the kilt.

“Do you plan on wearing that all the time?” asks Robb, yawning.

“Aye. Might as well enjoy their hospitality. Alright, fun time's over, up you get. Put on some clothes and man up, we cannot have the King walking bow legged into the Great Hall.”

\------

“You look… nice.” Giving compliments was never Theon’s strong suit, but Robb did cut an elegant and dashing figure in his new set of clothes. It is an hour before the wedding, and the two of them are in an antechamber leading off the Great Hall. Robb, as the officiator, is dressed in full white complete with kilt. 

“You had get into a one after all.” Theon lifts up a corner of the kilt and tries to peek under.

Robb whacks his hand away. “There is something likeable about them. Not restrictive for one thing, and sits comfortably in the middle as a token of masculinity born of a garment that shares more common features with a lady’s skirt.”

“Blah blah blah, you talk too much,” whines Theon. “I like you better out of it than in it.”

“I swear I have to cut off your cock if I want to get anything done with you around.”

“But that would be a great pity for the whole of humanity!” cries Theon indignantly. 

Robb shushes him and opens the door leading to the Great Hall. He peers through the crack, at the simple wreaths of flowers, banners of cloth and sconces of fire decorating the room. “Can you imagine that they would ask me to officiate a wedding?”

“You fit the part, and you could not refuse your host. And they can brag till their dying day that they were married by a King.”

“Why are you so cynical? I am sure they genuinely welcomed the idea of having me in their midst.”

“That is probably true, too. But when you get down to it, humans are selfish creatures.”

“And mistake makers too. Will I make a fool of myself up there?”

“You worry too much. All you have to do is stand still and parrot the lines you memorised. Should not be that hard.”

“Yes, that is what I do most of the time I have to address the masses or make a political speech.”

“See? You are in the spirit of bogus social performances, and a wedding is the most false of them all. If you feel nervous, just take a look at my gorgeous face from across the room, and all will be fine.”

Robb shakes his head in good humour. “That would probably distract me further.”

“Good. Then you can find me in the Dining Hall. I am going to take a taste of every dish till my stomach walls burst, and I hope no one attacks tonight, as I will be so drunk I would not know the difference between a chamber pot and the King’s cup.”

“Do not expect me to join you, then.”

“I spend all my time with you as of late, and I miss my old company. It will be good to be in my element once in a while.”

“True.” Robb could not remember the last time he was in his element, which once was the time he spent with his father learning his skill and knowledge. He sighs wistfully as the sound of the minstrel tuning his rebec before the wedding celebrations began. 

“Have you ever thought of getting married?” he asks.

“Not deeply. People get married in Westeros for three reasons - money, alliances and heirs. None of which particularly interests me.”

“What if we get married?”

Theon stares in disbelief. “We? Married?” He bellows in laughter. “Whoever put such an dumb idea in your head?”

“Aye. It was foolish of me to ask.”

“How would it be any better than what we already have?” Theon pulls Robb into a tender embrace. “I could not possibly ask for more.”

“We would not need to flit like bats in the dark to find a chance to be together. We could walk proudly into any room and it would be no different from any other pair of lovers.”

“I prefer the dark, Your Grace. When too many people get involved, that only adds more daggers that can stab you in the back.”

“I would risk it.”

“I would not. Are you not happy with the way things are between us?” 

Robb rests his forehead against Theon’s. “That cannot be any farther from the truth. I am as happy as I can be.”

“Then I hate to be a thorn in your side, but you are betrothed to Lord Walder Frey’s daughter.”

“I have not forgotten.” Robb looks away miserably. “But that is not till the war is over, and the future is still hazy. But I am not a man who dishonours a promise.”

“What will become of me when you fulfill your promise?”

“I do not know.”

“I may decide to leave Winterfell – if life does return to normal after the war – I would have outgrown the confines of its walls. Besides, it would break my heart to see you with another.”

“It would break my heart to see you with another too, but I cannot be selfish as to get a binding oath from you when I know you will be the one left alone.”

The soft twangs of the rebec’s strings tip toe into the room and reflect off the shining tears that refuse to fall from both men’s eyes.

“I say we enjoy the present as much as we can,” says Theon at last, and lets his arms drop from Robb’s sides. 

Robb nods. “Make every second count. We might be dead tomorrow.”

“That is the spirit! Now go marry that bucktoothed couple, and I will go find us a nice bottle of wine.”

“Yes, I need a drink too after all this. Here is to hoping that the next wedding I am at would be happier, and red wine will flow.”

\------

Joy shines from the faces of the newly married couple as they sit at the head of a long table in the Great Hall, on which the wedding feast is laid on a flowing cloth as white and pure as driven snow. The table is in the shape of a giant horseshoe, and Robb and his retinue sit along the left of the table, and the Knights of Kilts fill the right. Robb stares at his bare plate as Sir Battlehelm asks the gods for blessings, conscious of the empty seat next to him. He hopes that Theon has not made a fool of himself in the Dining Hall, where the more raucous Knights of lower ranks and the soldiers engorge themselves on greasy food and flowing drink and riotous song. As Sir Battlehelm takes his seat down, Theon hurries in from the back of the hall, and slides into his seat. Thankfully, he knows how to blend with the shadows, and no one notices his entrance. 

“Apologies,” he whispers, and Robb hands him a napkin and gestures at his beard stained with gravy and wine. Theon quickly wipes his face and makes himself more presentable. Under the tablecloth, Theon lays his hand on Robb’s knee, who grips it with his own.

A glass clinks. The groom stands up to make a speech. “Welcome all ye to the happiest day of my life and my beautiful wife. We look forward to many moons of prosperity with strong alliances with family and friends, and of course, the King of the North, who we are blessed to have with us today. You honour us with your presence. We would appreciate if you could grace us with a few words.”

Robb smiles and stands up, reluctantly letting go of Theon’s hand. “At times of war, nothing unites the community and boosts the spirit like a marriage. Love is found in the verses of a song, a melodious harmony of fire and ice. Love is found in the dawn and dusk, the blending of perfectly congruency like day and night. Love is a connection between two souls, beyond the small minds of creatures of the land and sea and sky. Love is found in simple actions like the touch of hands and daily greetings and slight smiles. Love is found in the grand actions of vows till death and a life together and promises made in trust and hope. I am glad that all gathered here could take a share of the love we feel today.” 

A rich appreciative silence fills the hall. 

Robb takes his seat again, and for the life of him he could not bring himself to look at the smile he knows must be splitting the lower half of Theon’s face. He need not worry, as he feels a hand clutch his again as Theon raises his glass. “A toast,” he shouts. “To love!” laughter ripples down the table and everyone raises a glass too. Lady Stark catches Robb’s eye, and he raises his glass to his mother, he raises it at his fellow men in battle and he raises it to his friends. Finally he turns to Theon who stares lovingly at a roast duck before him. At that moment, Robb feels fonder of him than ever before. He grasps his hand tighter.

“I thought you ate,” he says to Theon.

“You can never have too much food.”

“Let the feasting begin!” cries Sir Battlehelm, and his guests fall on the delicacies hungrily. 

“Can I have my hand back?” whispers Theon with a grin. “It is hard to eat with only one.”

Robb blushes and lets go. 

After the meal, Robb stands up and bows to the couple. “I would like to offer the Husband and Wife a small gift, a token of appreciation. A song, A Ballad of Fire and Ice.” He waves over the minstrel who takes a seat at the middle of the floor between the two arms of the tables, and begins to sing. 

Many moons ago in a vale between the moon and sun;  
Lived a dragon with scales of red breathing rings of fire.  
On the other side of a hill between the earth and sky;  
Lived a dragon with scales of blue roaring an icy pyre.

Look, as the shadows of cloud brings dragon  
To life on meadows of proud Kings’ battles,  
Where a hundred men die.  
Look, to the old days of yore of bygone  
Times and bold ways of no death rattles,  
And dragons ruled the sky.

On the hill stood a castle proud and tall and full of joy;  
For the prince and princess were to be wed that day.  
Kings and farmers and beggars came from all around  
And cheers of mirth filled the air and every alleyway.

Look, as the shadows of cloud brings dragon  
To life on meadows of proud Kings’ battles,  
Where a hundred men die.  
Look, to the old days of yore of bygone  
Times and bold ways of no death rattles,  
And dragons ruled the sky.

The red dragon is awoken from a sleep fair and fine  
And the blue dragon from a slumber deep and dark.  
Angry roars shook the vales from pebble to mountain;  
Men cover behind castle walls, alarmed cries, hark!

Look, as the shadows of cloud brings dragon  
To life on meadows of proud Kings’ battles,  
Where a hundred men die.  
Look, to the old days of yore of bygone  
Times and bold ways of no death rattles,  
And dragons ruled the sky.

Dragons circle high above, the happy looks turn to fear.  
The mighty beasts of the wind feel a change in the air;  
Two lovers kept apart by a barrier meet at long last;  
Love springs in hearts that once held death and despair

Look, as the shadows of cloud brings dragon  
To life on meadows of proud Kings’ battles,  
Where a hundred men die.  
Look, to the old days of yore of bygone  
Times and bold ways of no death rattles,  
And dragons ruled the sky.

A day of celebration never seen before in the realm;  
Below, thrives bright and true the love of humans;  
Above, shines light and eternal the love of dragons;  
Lo, this tale will last till the last man drops his helm.

Look, as the shadows of cloud brings dragon  
To life on meadows of proud Kings’ battles,  
Where a hundred men die.  
Look, to the old days of yore of bygone  
Times and bold ways of no death rattles,  
And dragons ruled the sky.

The last note of the rebec falls on entranced ears, lulled into a state of hypnotic enchantment. First one pair hands clap, then another, and the hall erupts into sounds of felicitation. 

Later, as the table is cleared away, Theon leans closer to Robb. “I just realised that the song does not mention the genders of the dragons.”

“Who do you think wrote it?” whispers Robb, a satisfied smile on his face.

“It was beautiful.”

“Because you liked it, or because I wrote it?”

Theon thinks for a moment. “Both. I am not one for songs, but I did understand and enjoy it. It made me think, think about us. And then I realised it was too good to be true, as I involuntarily thought of both dragons as male. Now that I know you wrote it, I love it all the more, like the creamy frosting on a yule log.”

“Thank you,” says Robb, his cheeks pink. “I need to get used to you complimenting me.”

“Do not get too comfortable, I am not going soft on you.”

The revelries continue till the early hours of the morning. 

\------

Theon is drunk. 

He knew he should not be, but he is a man fond of the bottle. He sits with a circle of men he calls his friends, of both soldiers and knights. Not one man is sober, and raunchy jokes and feats of strength are their current past time. The topic of conversation, as is naturally expected from a group of debauched virile men, turns to sex.

“You know,” slurred Theon, “the best sex I’ve had – hic – no, you won’t believe it.”

“Tell us!”

“There’s truth in the saying that a lord fucks better than a vassal. It’s in the blood.”

“Who you been fucking?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Yer lying then.”

“No I’m not! You wouldn’t know until you got a taste of the royal cock!”

Robb hurries over. “That’s enough drinking for you!” He pulls Theon up by the collar. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to put this idiot to sleep. Drunks say the tallest tales. Come on, let us go.”

Theon resists. “Apologies, good sir, but I cannot go with you, I am with another.”

Robb sighs. “It is me, you slobbering dunk.” 

“Your Grace! I don’t wanna go!”

“Who said you have a choice?”

Robb marched Theon before him, while the rest of the soldiers booed. 

Theon shouts over his shoulder. “The King in North moans like a bulling cow every time he comes!”

Robb well near sprints to the door, face a fiery red, dragging Theon by his ear, the drunkards’ senseless laughter yapping at his ankles. He hopes they are too drunk to remember anything tomorrow. 

He goes up to his room and dunks Theon’s head in a cold bucket of water. Theon gasps and heaves, and slumps across the bed. 

“Join me!” purred Theon, in a pathetic uncoordinated attempt at seduction. 

“Not tonight, you are drunk,” says Robb, sitting down next to him and pulling off his boots. 

“So I am,” says Theon, with the gravity of realising the most important truth of life. 

“Sleep it off. I asked Talisa to bring up something to drink to settle your hangover.”

“Hmph.”

“Do not be jealous.”

“I am not.” 

“Good.” Robb gets up to step out of the white kilt, and put on something more comfortable. 

“Why should you be the King of the North?” Theon asks suddenly, his drunk mind making him bold. 

“Because the Lords wished it so and to avenge my father. We talked about this before.”

“I will make a better King,” says Theo with drunken bravado. “I am the heir to the Iron Islands, we take what’s ours by force. Winterfell should be mine.” And he fell asleep.

His words hit Robb like a crumbling wall of ice, and he could not have been more stunned if Theon had stabbed him through the chest. After a moment to compose himself, he brushes it off as the ramblings of a drunkard. But a niggling seed of doubt was planted in his chest, and once distrust takes root, it is hard to quench. 

A knock at the door.

Robb opens it to find Talisa outside, a jug of some tincture or other in her hands. 

“I should not be seen here,” she whispers urgently and hands over the jug. “Give Theon this, and he would be sprightly as a lark in the morning. How is he?”

“Physically, not too bad. But I am not too sure of the state of his mind.”

“What makes Your Grace think that?” she asks, raising a brow quizzically. 

Robb hesitates, wondering if it is advisable to trust a nurse. He figures it would not hurt to reveal a half truth. “Has anyone you trusted betrayed you?”

“Too many to count.” She presses against the doorframe. “But I always find that actions speak louder than words. One might say that they are faithful, others might say that they are deceitful, and yet another would say that they take no side. But watch where they cast their die, and learn their next move. Or, if you are in their intimate confidence, just ask. An honest conversation works wonders to doubting minds.”

“How did you get so wise?”

“Birth and title and gender does not determine spirit or intelligence or goodness, Your Grace.”

“I value the different perspective you add to my thoughts.”

“As I am sure you do his,” Talisa nods towards Theon, who lies snoring in a messy heap. “You are sensible enough to find the calm course to a safe port in a storm. Goodnight, Your Grace.”

“Good Night, Talisa Maegyr.”

Robb closes the door and places the jug next to the bed. He rubs his eyes, mind too rattled for the ease of sleep. He picks up the bottle of the finest red wine that Theon fetched for him from the cellars, and decides that a drink will cure his ills after all. 

\------

Robb is drunk.

He walks on the battlements outside his room, stepping over the gaps on the parapet from one rectangular granite block to the next. On one side, the Keep extends skyward, solid and secure, on the other side, a dizzying drop of endless uncertainties. 

There had always been a little voice in his head asking him whether Theon was all what he seemed. It began when his mother took him aside as a child and told him that it would be inevitable that Theon and he would be friends, given the closeness in age and circumstances. But, she warned, there was something sly about that boy, and it would not hurt to be on guard. Robb had a trusting soul, and never found anything to doubt in Theon for all the years he knew him. But he was not blind, he knew that Theon was in his best behaviour around him, as much as his nature allowed him to be. He saw Theon’s outright hostility towards Jon Snow, his complete disregard of castle protocol, and his incessant need to grab at what he wanted with no regards for consequences. Somewhere along the way, as far as he knew, Theon had decided that being loyal to him was something he wanted, and for that Robb was grateful. He doubted he could have made it this far without Theon’s support. But what of the future? What if Theon discovered that his loyalties lay elsewhere? Robb knew Theon’s moral compass points not in the direction of truth but fear. Around him, Theon had nothing to fear. But with other men, he knew Theon harboured a sense of rebellious inadequacy that made him slash out.

Robb is the kind of man who procrastinates when drunk. With a cry of anguish, he dashes the empty bottle against the wall.

Theon, a man who definitely speaks before thinking when drunk, wakes up with a splitting headache. The sound of breaking glass enters his skull like a thousand fiery needles. It is still the middle of the night, he notes groggily. He reaches for the jug Robb told him of, and takes a long draught of the liquid. It was so bitter that he wakes up fully, and the pulsating pain in his head reduces to a dull throb. He sees a shadow against the wall, and recognises the familiar commanding silhouette of his lover. He slips out of bed and walks out to the battlements on unsteady legs and unequal strides. 

He sees Robb swaying back forth on top of the stone parapet. Theon leans against the doorway, watching him, and uncharacteristically fond smile on his chapped lips. Robb did cut a fine figure, and for Theon, he was a god among men. A gentle gust of wind dances through the spires and towers and banners of the Keep and swoops down to toss Theon’s hair. But the mildest puff of air is deadly to a drunk man, and Robb pitches forward, his cloak whipped into a long snake. Theon leaps forward, and gripping Robb by his belt, pulls him back to safety. 

Robb gulps. “That was close.”

“You were never good with heights,” says Theon, chuckling to calm his shuddering heart beating painfully against his ribs. “Do not ever climb up on the battlements without me around.” He sniffs Robb’s breath. “Are you drunk?”

“You are one to talk, I only had one bottle.” Robb steps out of Theon’s hold and leans against the battlements. He looks away into the distance and asks, “Do you remember the day you retrieved Lord Con’s letter?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

“You said that it was Thobb who had come to collect it, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you two talk?”

Theon frowns. “No, I shot the letter out of his hand with an arrow, like I told you that day. Why do you ask?”

Robb shrugs and continues to not look back. 

Theon grips him by the shoulder and spins him around. “Is this about what the fat slob said about me snitching where in hell you are to Lannister scum?”

“You know better than to insult a Lord of my War Council.”

Theon swallows his pride. ““Is this about what Lord Greatjon Umber said about me telling the enemy of your whereabouts?”

“Maybe. Did you?”

Theon throws his arms in the air in frustration. “I cannot believe you are asking me this. After all we have been through, do you still not trust me?”

Robb sighs. “I do, with all my heart. But…”

“But, what?”

“My mind does have cause to pause.”

“That means you are not stupid. I sometimes doubt myself.”

Robb looks at him in surprise. “Why would you say that?”

“I am a chameleon, I change my colours depending on where I am and who I am with. When I am with you, I am my best self, that is why I swore fealty to you. You are a perfect –”

Robb scoffs. “Perfect? You jest.”

“I do not. You have noble blood, education in academics and swordsmanship, and looks to disarm marauding wildlings from beyond The Wall. You are a born leader, the most dutiful eldest son any father could hope for and the most conscientious son any mother could dream of. At the start of the war, everyone thought you will fail within a week, but look how far you have come! Your enemies tremble. Soldiers laughed at your boyish looks, and you showed them that strategy overcomes age. Lords laughed that you hide behind your mother’s skirts, but you craftily delegate her unparalleled skill in negotiation. And to me, well, you are the best person who ever uttered my name with anything other than abject derision.”

Robb steps closer, “I –”

Theon brings his fists down on the hard wall of rock. “And what have I? I am nothing next to you. I was born with the wrong blood, to the wrong land, and kept the wrong company. I can play at being your equal, but I will never anything but a lesser being in your shadow. I am not jealous of Talisa, I am jealous of you.” He fiercely wiped his nose and blinked back tears. “There, now you heard me say it. I wish you no ill, and I will die for you if need be, because some force in the universe threw my lot with you, and if I cannot find greatness, at least I can ensure that the greatest presence I know will live another day to do good I cannot do.” He rests his head on his clenched hands. “Leave me be, you have my word and my sword, there is nothing more I can give you.”

Robb places a shaky hand on the other’s back, soothing to the touch. “I am not perfect.” He hugs Theon from behind, burying his face in Theon’s springy locks. “You have asked me many a time why I chose to be the King of the North. I told it was for the people, which is the truth but not the whole truth. My father was wise; he knew his place and ken and kept it well. I – I desired more. I want to rule, I want more, I want to be the King of the world. Why? I have plenty. But ambition born of unchallenged superiority is a hungry beast, and if you say I am better than all men, then to desire more is selfish and a fool’s errand.”

Theon turns his head and Robb kisses his ear. “Your Grace is not an egomaniac. That is what separates you from mad kings. You are more alike your father than you realise. You too know your limit, and work within it. A fool would have challenged Jamie Lannister to a duel when you captured him, and lost. You would have declared yourself the King of all Westeros, not of the North, if you had ambition that vaults over your place in this world. The North is your home, the land is in your blood, and you should rule it. You called war not to sit on a coveted throne, but to avenge your father and rescue your defenceless sisters and put an end to the cruellest family in existence, the Lannisters. And you fight because you can, and proved you can. What Thobb said is untrue. You lead your swords and beasts, and do not hide behind better men to do your bidding.”

“Earlier, when you were drunk, you said you see yourself as the King of the North.”

Theon bites his lower lip. “What foolish boy does not dream of glory beyond reach? I am ashamed to admit those words, but I must bear my avarice. You are the one true King of the North, and if you sit on its throne, my dream is reality.”

Robb finds tears in his eyes. “I do not deserve to hear this.”

“You do, and if you do not believe me, then I would not hesitate to call you a fool.”

“And you are a fool to believe that you are not my equal.” Robb gently turns Theon around and holds him close. “I may have advantages from birth you never did. But you still proved yourself by your own right. No man dares challenge you in the battlefield, and though lesser men cast your name in the dirt, you stand on your own feet and grin through it all. Whispers are often found behind your back, but you pay no heed. Your reputation is what you carve for yourself. You answer to no man.” Robb kisses Theon on the forehead. “Except to me.” He covers Theon’s face with little pecks of love. “And your love for me is my guide, the light through the darkness. Everyone needs to love, even kings. You might love your family, your land, your fellow man but the strongest of them all is the love you share with a soul mate. And you are mine.” Theon cracks a smile, bemused. “Do not laugh, I mean it. I am a man who puts a lot of value to love, and you are what love means to me. The world sees me, I see you. I draw from you my strength, my inspiration, and my will to face the next day. And I could not ask for a better source of power. You are a host of wonderful things that I am not, merry manners and careless confidence and chiming charm. You are quick to rise to action, and stir me from my passive thoughts. You are the spark that sets me ablaze. Yet you are the ice crystal that keeps me in check. You are my opposite, you compliment me and complete me, and if the world does not toss your roses, know that I do.”

“And a single rose from you can bear my world in it.” Theon slowly kisses Robb’s eyes, the tears that fall from them, and presses his beating heart against his.

“I will give you all the roses in the world.”

“I do not care for that gesture,” says Theon grimacing. “Your seven gifts were more than I can bear.” He frowns. “I hope I am not just a shiny plaything for you to look at every time you feel depressed and blue.”

“Never, you are way unpredictable for that. I like that about you, maybe too much.”

“Who else will keep you on your toes?” 

“Come,” says Robb, and leads Theon indoors to their bedchamber. “I have one last verse to write.” He picks up a feather and a bottle of ink, and looks for a piece of paper. There is none to be found. 

Theon pulls his jacket and tunic off. “Here.” He offers a bare arm. Robb smiles, and they sit cross-legged facing each other in the light off the glowing embers in the fireplace, and Robb’s pen scratches black lines up Theon’s arm and across his chest and down his back.

Tall tales told and love songs sung for reasons many  
Of fire and ice in union to make a perfect whole  
Inamorato, the word said from one man to another  
The world in a word and a word to pass them all 

Look, as the shadows of cloud brings dragon  
To life on meadows of proud Kings’ battles,  
Where a hundred men die.  
Look, to the old days of yore of bygone  
Times and bold ways of no death rattles,  
And dragons ruled the sky.

Robb finishes, and puts the feather back on the table, and surveys his work, fingers tracing under each word.

“Did you know you put your tongue out when you write?” asks Theon with a smirk.

“Is that what you decide to focus on?”

“Yes and no. No, as I do not deserve to have these words carved on my body, but if your hand places them there, I am your canvas. And yes, as I am a simple man, and only wishes to find out what else you can do with your tongue tonight.”

“Never change, Theon,” says Robb. He takes a swig from Talisa’s potion. “I am ready.”

The love that made that night was different from the previous coupling. Wilder and more welcoming the second time around, and both eager to explore more of each other. Caution was thrown to wind that tore through the Keep, and no inhibitions held them back under the moonless sky. Thunder cracked and lightning struck and rain lashed like whips on walls that reverberated upon the assault but held strong. Limbs thrash, bodies smash and ink smears over white sheets and pink skin. Finally, as the raging storm folds into a splatter of gentle rain, the two lay in restful slumber, enmeshed together so that one cannot say where one man ends and the other begins. Brown and gold hair braid together on a soft pillow, as the sun rises to greet a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!
> 
> The Ballad of Fire and Ice is written by me.


	7. Chapter 7

Robb and Theon face a new worry. 

Maybe it was the hangover over from the drinking slowing their minds, or the cloudy rainy weather bearing low down on them, or the surprised carnality of the night before, but both wake up feeling grumpy. They potter about their morning ablutions in silence and set off to their duties with a brief kiss. Robb faces a long War Council, one of the toughest he chaired so far. The addition of Sir Battlehelm does not make matters easy, as his loud roars of insistence that the Knights fight on their own clash directly with the arguments of the rest, and through it all he loses himself sorting out conflicting reports pouring in bearing ill news of the enemy’s movements. Worse, food runs short, and some of the soldiers found the change in weather and climate of the mountain gave them a cold and runny nose. If the situation cannot get bleaker, he hears that Grey Wind had been struck by a mysterious illness too. Robb sighs, and looks longingly out of a window at the sweeping expanses of dreary moors outside. He would not have minded a horse ride with Theon, even in this weather. Outside the Keep, Theon spends his day working out his frustration in the training field, battering dummies with his sword and pushing himself to hit the target with his bow and arrow from farther and farther away. He hears a few soldiers snickering behind him, and he wonders if anyone remembers what he said of Robb, and if it passes from gossiping mouth to curious ear. He glares at the men, but they only laugh louder, putting him on edge. Not knowing was worse, and his face grows darker with each passing hour. After he has to be pulled off from his sparring partner, who he had almost beaten into the ground, Theon slouches out of the Keep walls by the drawbridge and sits with his back against the stones, looking over miles of wet grass and muddy streams. He belonged out there at Robb’s side, on one of their directionless rambles, talking of nothing and everything. Both men find the other in every waking thought, and the distraction makes them moody and clumsy and irritable.

Robb and Theon face a new worry.

When one gives one’s heart away to another, the heart feels lonely when not in touch with the other’s. And when one feels lonely, the gut reaction is to cry out for attention. 

\------

After a few moments of disquiet, Theon sighs and gets up, it is time to head back and see if there is anyone left to train with. He pauses when he hears footsteps behind him. It is a Knight of Kilts, one of the men in Robb’s Personal Guard given to him by Lord Con. He hands Theon a folded note, bows and goes around the corner.

Theon opens the letter, and smiles when he sees it is addressed ‘To My Theon’ in Robb’s familiar looping handwriting. It is the last verse of the Ballad of Two Dragons, the one he wrote just for him. It is signed with ‘Your Grace, and yours only, Robb Stark.”

Theon swats at his tearing eyes in mortification and stuffs the letter in his jacket. Once he regains his composure, he hurries in to the Keep with a spring his step. He does not notice the letter dislodge from his pocket and fall to the ground.

Theon climbs the steps to the courtyard two at a time when he bumps into a soldier standing at the top of the steps, hardly more than a boy. He almost knocks him over, and Theon steadies him back on his feet.

“There you go!”

“My Lord!” The boy’s eyes widen with fear. Theon recognises Robb’s squire, who had been initiated to soldier a few days ago.

“Do not be so scared, I do not bite. Unless you cross me!” Theon grinned down at the younger soldier. 

“My name is Dorrick,” he says, stammering.

“Hello, Dorrick.” Theon claps him on his shoulder. “And you already know my name.”

“Yes.” Dorrick’s voice drops to a whisper. “I was there last night when we drank together… is it true what you said?”

“What?” Theon’s eyes narrow, his former cheer gone. 

“That you and the King are lovers?”

Theon grabbed Dorrick by the neck and pushed him against a stone wall. “Is that what everyone is saying behind my back?” he asks, his voice dangerously low.

“They think it is a joke, My Lord,” gasps Dorrick. “I do not spread rumours!”

“Good.” Theon drops him on the ground. “Do not breathe a word.” 

Dorrick scrambles up. “My Lord?”

“What do you want now?” asks Theon who has already started to walk away.

“I – I” Dorrick seems almost near tears.

Theon frowns, not unkindly, and leads him by the shoulder to a quieter section of the corridor. “What do you have to say? No one can hear us here.”

“I think I am like you.”

Theon chuckles. “There is nothing to be frightened about.” He ruffles the other’s hair, and Dorrick gives a small grin. “You like men and women both?”

“Men… I think.”

“Great. Normally, I would be delighted to entertain a proposition, but I have sworn myself to someone.”

“Who?” 

Theon taps his nose. “The first thing a man learns when he takes on a male lover is that you do not go blabbing secrets.”

Dorrick nods uncertainly. “I wanted a friend who knows,” he adds looking up at Theon eagerly.

“Um…” Theon does not understand why anyone would want to be friends with him, but it would not hurt. “Sure.”

Dorrick beams. 

“Have you been training this morning? Do you want me to show you some tricks?”

Dorrick looks as if he has died and gone to heaven, as it was common knowledge among the soldiers that Theon was one of the best swordsmen in the Army from the North, and to be tutored by him was a coveted wish of many young soldiers. 

Theon laughs at the other’s adoring eyes, and he throws an arm over his shoulders and heads to the courtyard. 

\------ 

Lord Greatjon Umber strides up to Robb as he plots the most accurate path that Lord Tywinn Lannister’s army could be taking. 

“Your lacky has been causing trouble,” says Lord Umber, pleased to be the bearer of unpleasant news. 

“What has Theon done now?” asks Robb, raising tired eyes.

“The fellow is running his mouth and bragging that no one can beat him in a duel except you.”

“That is probably true,” says Robb, brushing it aside. “I do not have the time or the patience to be concerned with idle chatter.”

“Aye, but the soldier boys hate a big mouthed prig. They are lining up for a fight at the courtyard as we speak.”

“The training will do them good.” Robb turns back to his map.

Lord Umber is not ready to walk away without getting the reaction he wants from Robb, but he is dwarfed by Sir Battlehelm’s formidable figure as he brushes past him. The Protector Knight clomps up and thumps Robb on the back, and unintentionally almost throws him across the table.

“HAH!” cries Sir Battlehelm, “Theon Greyjoy has some fierce blood in him! He is winning left and right, and growing more and more ferocious with each defeat at the pointy end of his sword. You did not tell me you had such good men in your ranks! My knights are joining in too!” He slaps his knee. “Good, the lads need the exercise, they have been getting fat without any action around. But –” his wide smile does not hide his cunning eyes. “The men grow restless. My knights will be terribly upset if a mere boy beats them. We do not want discord among the ranks, do we? If we let him keep fighting, what would the results be?”

“What would you have me do about it?”

“Go fight him. Prove his claim, and win. You will have loyal men behind you, and Theon will be regarded as the second greatest swordsmen in the Keep.”

Lord Umber nods too, but for different reasons. In his eyes, Theon needs a public shaming to be put into his place. 

Robb does not let the conflicting emotions within him spill out. Of all his and Theon’s training fights before, the higher track record of wins is his. Defeating Theon in battle will not be difficult. But he does not know what Theon’s thinking is in calling all this attention to himself, and by extension Robb too. It was unnecessary drama they all could do without. But it seems that the easiest and surest way would be to appear against him in this impromptu tournament. And Robb always chose the smoothest solution for conflicts before they escalated into worse. But the consequences of him losing will be dire, a fact that he hopes Theon understands.

Robb nods. He strides out of the Great Hall and down to the courtyard. He hears the noise of excited men echoing off the walls before he walks around the corner into the muted watery sun, and sees an irregular circle of cheering men surrounding Theon and a Knight of Kilts, swords locked in a duel. Rivulets of sweat run down Theon’s neck, and if looks could kill, his penetrating blood curdling glare would flatten armies of battle-hardened men. He darts forward, skidding under his opponent’s swordarm, and spins to face him from behind. He boots the surprised Knight squarely on the ass, sending him crashing into the crowd, which erupts into hollers of delight. 

“Who is next?” shouts Theon, raising his sword in the air in triumph.

Robb steps in to the circle, and sudden silence falls. Theon, surprised at the reaction of the crowd, turns. Upon seeing Robb, he automatically drops on one knee and digs his sword into the ground. 

“What is going on here?” asks Robb in a commanding tone, wishing he could talk with him alone.

Theon does not answer.

“I heard that you claimed that only I can beat you with a sword?” Robb smiles. “I cannot let that go uncontested, can I?” The crowd laughs hesitantly. “Up you get, let us settle this for once and for all.” The crowd cheers at the King’s sportsmanship.

Theon gets up and plants his feet apart in a fighting stance. Robb hands his cloak, jacket and sword belt to Lord Umber and draws out his sword. He steps in front of Theon and levels his sword at him, one arm bent behind his back. They circle each other, Robb cool and refreshed, Theon hot and panting. Theon makes the first move, which Robb easily parries to the side. Swords flash and sand scatters underfoot, strike matching strike. It was as if either of them fighting with a mirror: Each knew the others strength and weakness, and each knew that the other knew that. The cheers from the crowd fill their ears and pump their blood. Theon tumbles in the air, his sword a viper strike, and Robb’s sword goes clattering in the dust.

“Best of three!” shouts Theon.

Robb picks up his sword and faces him again. This was more serious than he anticipated. He wishes he could read Theon’s mind. In turn, Theon wishes he could read Robb’s. A petty childish sense of competition hammers red hot in Theon’s heart, both wishing he could beat the perfect swordsman before him, and be beaten by his better half at the same time. Robb steps forward cautiously, a distant memory taking shape in his mind. He suddenly dances to the side, movements deft and quick, and his sword a blur. A trick Theon had taught him long ago. Theon is at first taken by surprise at his own moves used against him, and tries to defend himself. He was used to Robb’s usual tactic of strength over nimbleness, but with the tables turned on him, he is soon forced to his knees with Robb’s sword at his throat.

The crowd is wild, and even some of the Commanders and Lords line the battlements above, watching with interest. Lady Stark observes with her heart in her throat, worrying of the result. 

“The next round decides the winner!” announces Sir Battlehelm. 

Robb grips Theon’s hand and pulls him up. “All eyes are on us,” he whispers in his ear. “Let me win.” Theon does not respond. 

Robb sighs and steps back three paces, as does Theon. Their swords rise as if by one command, both breathing at the other’s pace. They blink away the late afternoon sun and see only each other as if at the end of a yawning tunnel. Robb feigns to the left just as Theon presses forward from his right. Their swords meet at the centre. They are at an impasse. Robb might press forward with all the weight in his body, Theon would shift slightly, almost throwing Robb off balance. Their feet slide in the dust, sweat trickle into their eyes, and a deadly hush falls on the crowd. Eager anticipation leans forward to see whose sword would give way first. Metal creaks and hands grip tighter. Scowls twist both faces, neither willing to relinquish the hold they had over the other. 

The clatter of horseshoes can be heard in the distance, rattling up the road and over the drawbridge. The horse’s pants and the jingle of the tackle become louder. A messenger appears at the side of the courtyard. “A letter for the King!”

Robb and Theon share a look, and Theon nods almost imperceptibly. They both step back, swords at their sides and say in unison, “I yield.”

“A draw!” bellows Sir Battlehelm. If the gathered audience is disappointed, it is soon replaced by worried speculation about the contents of the letter. 

Robb motions the messenger over, and takes the letter. He breaks it open, and skims through it. Theon looks at him with growing apprehension, as Robb’s face turns increasingly graver. He puts the letter down and looks around at expectant faces and takes a deep breath.

“I have received word that Lannister men march towards us from the South, twenty five thousand strong. They will be here at the break of day tomorrow. My sources tell me that they do not yet know that we are stationed here, and we will be ready for them.” He grips Theon’s shoulder and raises his voice. “What is the use of fighting among ourselves? The enemy lies beyond the walls of the Keep, not turning against your fellow man. Are we not united under one cause? Do you not know where your loyalty lies? Are we not brothers?” The men rally in one loud cheer. “Soldiers and Knights will march together.” Sir Battlehelm raises a fist in the air and shouts his assent. “Let the enemy come. We will fall on them like vultures. We will free the North back to the people who grew in its soil, we need not answer to a faraway foreigner on an iron throne!” cries of ‘King of the North’ surge in the provoked air. Robb holds his shimmering sword in the air and yells. “We fight at dawn.”

Theon raises his sword next to Robb’s. “We fight at dawn.” 

The words pass from lip to lip as a thousand upon thousand swords join the rousing battle cry, filling every corner of the Keep and bursting forth in the power of a sea of voices combined in one cause. 

“Men, to your units, your commanders will instruct you. Be prepared, be rested. We will meet on the battlefield tomorrow.” 

Soldiers and knights march off, the thrill of the kill pulsating in their veins. 

“Councilmen, I will meet you in the Great Hall.”

Heads nod at the battlements. 

Robb turns to Theon in silent communication and strides off. He retrieves back his cloak, jacket and sword belt from an observant Lord Umber and heads towards the keep. He enters a narrow corridor on the side, which winds behind the kitchens to the Great Hall. It is wreathed in shadows and seldom used. He leans against the wall, pulling on his garments. Suddenly a hand clamps over his mouth. 

“I was a fool, I am sorry, do not scold me.” Theon’s voice is raspy in his ear. 

Robb removes Theon’s hand. “You make me.” He turns around and kisses Theon roughly. He pushes him away and punches him repeatedly on the chest, and Theon lets him. “What were you thinking? Do not let this happen again. You know what is at stake.”

“You are angry at me?”

“Of course I am!”

“But you won.”

“It was a draw.”

“It does not matter. You always win. I do not have to lose for you to win. I never win. Not in the eyes of men who follow you.”

Robb turns away in despair. “What has gotten into you today?”

“The words you wrote have gotten into my head. Are you not content with my word, sword and heart, must you have my head too?”

“I have given mine to you freely. It is you who twist my words, raise your sword against mine, hold my heart hostage and not tell me what is on your mind.” 

Theon sighs. “I have no excuse. It is just the way I am.”

“You are better than this, I have seen you better.”

“I let myself be too happy.” Theon dashes a fist against the wall. “It is a feeling I do not understand. I do not know how to return your kindness and care and love. I will always be that stone in your shoe.”

“But you were… fine all these days.”

“Maybe I was scared that they will not last.”

“So you sabotage it on purpose?” 

“I am a man who clashes steel against steel. I know no other way.”

“Then do you not realise you have paid me the highest compliment?” Robb hesitantly lays both hands on his shoulders. “By saying that I am the only one who can beat you in a sword fight?”

Theon looks down sulkily. “You wrote me a whole poem. You fircking had it sung in the middle of a wedding. How can I match that?”

“Look at me,” says Robb and Theon does so. “You do not have to go to such convoluted lengths to prove yourself to me. You do not have to give a desperate cry of attention to tell me you love me. You have already a place in my soul, just let your guard down and let me love you and let yourself love me. It might be strange to let someone into your heart, but I have learned that today. I value my independence, and now I have to care and worry about another too. It is as if I have two bodies, two minds, and two hearts. It is a lot to take in, but I – we – will grow into our new role, our new identity. But I would not have it any other way.” He lays his head on Theon’s shoulder. “You are my guide with me physical love. Let me be yours in the realm of the mind and spirit. Just relax, and take my hand. Will you?” 

“What have I done to deserve you?” whispers Theon, his hands finding Robb’s. “Yes, a million times, yes.”

“And today’s battle was not in vain. Now that I know why it happened, I can look back and see the advantages in it. First, I have never felt more battle-ready as I do now, facing my truest opponent and brother in arms is the best training I could get. Second, it was a draw. Nothing else can prove that we are equals, do not dare say otherwise. Third, every swordsman likes a show, so long as it is not them getting a trouncing. We gave the men a good time, and they know the King is not too haughty to get down and dirty with them. Fourth, you neither proved nor disproved your claim, and that still puts you in high esteem.”

“So, I am an accidental genius?”

“No, a petty brat who is unbelievably lucky.”

Theon chuckles and pushes Robb against the wall to give him a kiss on the nose. 

“Ah, hussies, who is your lucky fag tonight, Theon?” a voice comes from the gloom.

Theon recognise the voice and leaps towards it, sword drawn. “Say that again, Lord Umber, and you will have no more fingers to call your own.”

Robb steps forward. “And it would not be your place to hunker in the shadows.”

Lord Umber’s jaw drops in surprise when he sees the two of them. He falls down on one knee. “My apologies, Your Grace, I did not see who Theon was with, I did not think it would be –”

“Me?” asks Robb his voice cracking. “Aye, it is I.” He glares down at Lord Umber. “Have you been making life difficult for Theon because you knew he slept with men?”

Lord Umber does not have to nod, his eyes reveal all. 

“I see.” Flurries of emotions assault Robb, the fear of discovery, the mistreatment of Theon, and the disappointment in a trusted Councilman. “We will not speak of this now. Go to the Great Hall. If I hear of you telling anyone of what you saw here now, I will personally make sure your tongue will be in the meat dish tonight. Understand?” Menace crawls in his voice. 

Lord Umber nods twice sharply. “I am still your loyal Bannersman.”

“Go.” Theon brings his sword close to Lord Umber’s throat.

He hurries away from sight.

Robb leans weakly against the wall. “He knows now, and what prevents him from spreading the rumour?”

“It is not you who will get hurt,” says Theon quietly.

“What do you mean? My reputation will be mud, my allies will desert and soldiers will follow my orders in disgust.”

“Not if you let that happen. Powerful men on the War Council want you as the King of the North, as you are the ideal candidate for the title. They will sweep it under the rug the best they can, and no one will be any wiser. All they need is someone to call guilty of all blame.”

“A scapegoat?”

“Me.” Theon laughs mirthlessly. “Just imagine the tale they will spin. The unwanted son of a defeated Lord brought to the good Stark household, scheming against their innocent son and corrupting him with his evil influence. Can you not see them eat it up? Will I be banished, or will the King be merciful and order my head be chopped off at the Town Square in Winterfell? Will I get a grave or rot in the mud –”

Robb’s look of fortitude stops Theon’s rant. “I will not let them happen. I always do the honourable thing, and I will not let innocents be harmed.”

“No, you always do the right thing. And the right thing is for me to disappear, innocent or not. My crime is blemishing your good name in the eyes of men who should know better.” 

“You will not disappear. You belong by my side, and I at yours, and if that cannot be in this world, we shall disappear together.”

“To another land faraway or beyond the plane of mortals?”

“Whichever it takes for us to be together.” 

“Would you run away from this keep with me tonight? Would you leave behind an army without a leader? Would you leave behind a kingdom without a King? Would you leave behind a family without an heir?”

Robb freezes.

“I thought so.” Theon looks away in torment. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.” He takes Robb’s hand and presses his heart. “But I will not desert you. I will be here as long as you command me to. The Theon that only looked out for his best interests is gone. Sneaking away under the guise of the night is the rational thing to do, but love is never rational, is it? You are a part of me as much as my freedom is. How far can I run…” Theon’s heartbeat vibrates up Robb’s arm. “Without you by my side?”

“What did I do to deserve you?” whispers Robb. “Thank you, a million times, thank you.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“I only ask you to stay till the end of the battle tomorrow. We shall see what happens after that.” 

“As you wish.”

“Right now, we will go to the War Council, and hold face. We will find out if Lord Umber kept his word.”

Theon rolls his shoulders back and puffs out his chest. “Permission to cut him a new one, with my tongue of course, if he gets out hand?”

Robb laughs, relief flooding him realising that he could still do so. “Of course, but do not antagonise him. Thank you for making me smile.”

“Only nine hundred and ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety six more ‘thank you’s to go!”

Robb rolls his eyes. “I forgot how big your head can swell.”

“That is not the only thing of mine that can swell big, Your Grace.”

“You are lucky that I enjoy your sense of humour.” Robb cuffs Theon on the ear.

“And I am happy that I get to enjoy this!” Theon slaps Robb on the ass. 

“Try that again at the Council and I swear –”

“My ass will be in the meat dish tonight?”

Robb gags. “That is not what I want to think about right now! I got a war to plan.”

“Aye, but you would not unless you hurry up.”

And hope drove them onwards along the cold hallway with the hopes of a warmer welcome in the future.

\------

Theon rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet at one end of the long table in the Great Hall. He looks at Robb run a sweaty hand through messy curls for the twelfth time in the last hour. He is in the thick of distributing the soldiers and knights to various points on the map, where they would at the most advantageous to defend the Keep. The poor man looks hassled, worries Theon. Time to liven up the room.

“Alright,” says Robb, “We will roughly divide the battle ground into four. The North and South faces of The Spine in turn will be divided into the left and right with The Howling Pass in the middle. We will have the Knights on the hillside –”

“Why not in the pass?” questions Lord Umber. “It is their pass, they should defend it.”

“The pass only allows fifteen men walk abreast. We always defended to pass from around and above,” barks Sir Battlehelm.

“True,” says Robb, practically keeping peace in the middle. “We must have men on both the hillside and the pass. Our soldiers have not fought on slopes before –”

“The Knights fight on the hills!” bellows Sir Battlehelm.

“The soldiers fight on the hills!” roars Lord Umber.

Robb groans internally.

Theon clears his throat. “Lord Umber?”

“What do you have to say, boy?”

“Would it not be a pity to see our men roll down the slopes like bottles on a drunk old man’s table?”

Lord Umber open and closes his mouth. 

Robb stifles a smile. 

“The soldiers are more sure footed than that,” says Lord Umber stiffly.

“But he has a point,” says Robb. “The soldiers should be worried about the approaching enemy, not where they place their foot.”

Lord Umber begrudgingly agrees, and the meeting runs smoothly for a while. 

“Sir Battlehelm, why do your Knights wear Capes to battle?” asks Robb. “They are cumbersome and inhibits their agility.” 

“Our Capes are our Symbol! We would look like undressed vultures if we go to war without them!” comes the grunting reply.

“Tell me, Sir Battlehelm,” drawls Theon. “What looks tastier on your plate, a plucked chicken or an unplucked?”

“What Theon means to say is,” says Robb, getting into the stride of things, “Depending on the situation, adapting to it is wise.”

“Hmph. Fine”

The discussion draws to a close. “One last point,” announces Robb. “I plan on sending a troop of both soldiers and knights to skirt the advancing Army from the South and attack.”

“Penetrate from the rear, Your Grace?” asks Theon. “They will never see them coming.”

Lord Umber looks as if he has a chicken born stuck in his throat. “Preposterous. We are not cowards; we do not attack from behind. We will face them head on like heroes.” Other voices join him. 

Robb wavers. He had hoped his idea would not be vetoed, but getting Lord Umber on his side was crucial. 

“Do you cut your own hair, Lord Umber?” asks Theon. 

“Sometimes, yes. What does this have to do with anything, you young grasshopper?” Lord Umber shoots back.

“Then you might know that the cutting hair at the back is more difficult that the sides or top, an action you should be familiar with as you are going bald.”

Lord Umber splutters and a smattering of laughter passes through the room. 

“Their rear guard is the weakest,” says Robb. “We will have a better shot at a victory if we split our army in two and trap the enemy in the middle of the pass.”

Lord Umber grumbles and agrees, and the other Lords follow suit. 

“Who will lead the second the troop?” asks another Lord.

“Any volunteers?” asks Robb, but he only has eyes for Theon. 

Theon stands up and nonchalantly stabs his sword on the table and leans against it with a cocky smile. “I will.”

“And what makes you the best man for this job?” asks Lord Umber.

“Trust me, my sneaky sword is an expert at loosening tight situations.”

Robb stuffs a fist in his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud. 

“My troop will have to be as swift as a hare but as silent as a falling leaf,” continues Theon. “Both of which I can guarantee.” 

“Can I trust you to look after half my Knights well?” asks Sir Battlehelm, his twinkling eyes knowing the game being played.

“It will be my honour and pleasure.” Theon bows low.

“I will not send my men with a half-baked lad.” Lord Umber sniffs.

“Then you will lead the attack yourself, My Lord?” asks Theon, inclining his head. “And will you wield the sword yourself too?”

“That was a cheap blow, boy!” says Lord Umber, waving a fist with missing fingers at Theon.

“Who would you suggest?” asks Robb calmly.

Lord umber names another Commander, and Robb holds a vote, which draws in favour of Theon. With everything settled, Robb dismisses the council.

Theon winks at Lord Umber on his way out. 

“You have a big mouth on you,” mutters Lord Umber.

“As do you.” Theon bobs his head. “Looking forward to hear you cheer my name from the side-lines as I thrash some Lannister ass.”

Lord Umber blanches and shakes a fist as Theon skips away, much to the delight of the rest of the Council. They have all been waiting to see someone best the domineering old man.

Robb sighs in relief and rolls up the map. He says a silent prayer to the old gods, he would need all the help he can get for tomorrow’s battle. He is the last to leave, and he blows out all the candles bar one, and steps out of the Great Hall carrying the last securely in his hand. He make his way down the corridor, taking a pool of light with him. Familiar comforting cool hands encircle him from the darkness behind him. 

“You got to stop doing that, Theon,” whispers Robb. 

“No one can see us, the night hides us.” Theon nuzzles against his ear.

“Careful, the next time someone jumps at me from the dark, I will stab him with my sword.” Robb pushes his ass back against Theon’s crotch.

“You are yet to stab me with your cock.” Theon’s hands wander down Robb’s torso to between his legs.

“All in good time. Thank you for having my back at the Council.”

“I always have your back.” Theon pumps his hips against Robb’s.

“Be serious for once.”

“Alright. Did you chose me to lead the troop as I have a high chance of dying, which would solve all your problems?”

Robb drops the candle in shock, and the flame extinguishes against the cold stones that pave the floor, plunging the two men into black nothing. He spins around and grips Theon by the front of his jacket and lifts him a foot off the ground with the strength of his anger and love. “How dare you say those words, brother? I will never send you to your death, you hear me? I cannot stop the hand of death, but I trust you to lead my army to victory. You have proved your skill in battle and there is no man within this Keep fitter to be the leader on a mission where I cannot be. I trust you, dammit.” He lowers Theon to the ground, breathing hard. “And your death will not solve any problems, it will be the beginning and end of mine and my life.”

“Good,” whispers Theon laying his icy cheek against Robb’s flushed ones. “I wanted to know. And I do not plan on dying any time soon, My Grace, we will see other again come the next morrow.”

Robb shudders and gathers Theon in his arms. “My only hope.”

“Would you like me to sleep tonight in the barracks?” asks Theon softly. “It might not be safe for us to sleep together, Robb.”

Robb gasps. “That was the first time you called me by my name for a long time, not since we were children.”

Theon blinks. “Is it?”

Robb nods, grinning like a child with the promise of magic.

“And so it is, Robb!” Theon tastes the yet unfamiliar word on his lips.

“It sounds different when you say it… you pronounce the ‘r’ weird.” Robb laughs. “And to hell with caution. Lord Umber has held his tongue, no one knows of us. Go to our bedchamber. I need to go show my face at the barracks, kitchen and sanatorium, make everyone know I am no untouchable faraway inhuman figure. I will join you afterwards.”

“You work too hard.”

“My duty is in my blood.”

“And that is why I fell in love with you.” Theon gives Robb’s nose a pinch.

Robb blushes. “See you soon.” He starts to head down the corridor, but Theon pulls him back. 

“You still have not…” says Theon hesitantly, “Told me that you love me.”

Robb looks surprised. 

“Well, not directly,” clarifies Theon.

“You always want to hog all the attention.” Robb has a twinkle in his eyes. “I should not give into that, should I?” He cups his face. “But…” He pulls Theon closer on the tips of his toes. “Theon Greyjoy, brother of mine, know that Robb Stark loves you as much as he is able.” He kisses him, a dusting of dusky rose petals in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Talisa is washing away empty canisters of cough tinctures when she sees Robb enter the Sanatorium. She curtseys respectfully, but does not make eye contact. She busies herself putting away clean appliances safely. Robb talks to a few soldiers recovering from their colds, and heads over to Talisa, politely waiting until she acknowledges him.

“Your Grace?”

“How is Grey Wind?” asks Robb, slight worry colouring his features. He looks like a little boy fearing for the life of his sick puppy, which is not too different from what is happening, thinks Talisa.

“Follow me.” She leads Robb to the back of the room that acted as the Sanatorium. Grey Wind lies drowsily on a pile of pelts, its nose blocked with phlegm. Robb rubs its neck, and it wags its tail weakly. 

Talisa pets it behind an ear. “I am worried. I have not treated any animal with this sickness, and do not know if the medicine that we use on the men would work on him. He is very weak, and I fear he would not make it through the night.”

Robb’s face is stricken with terror. “Is there no way we can save him?”

“There is a herbal potion that I prepared myself, but it is untested and I cannot guarantee results.”

“Is there no other way?” Robb’s voice is tight.

Talisa shakes her head.

“I trust you. Use it.”

Talisa nods and takes a bottle from a shelf. She gently takes the Direwolf’s head onto her lap; pries open its jaws and pours the liquid in. Grey Wind whimpers but makes no other reaction. 

“You are good with animals,” observes Robb.

“An animal is kind to you if you are kind to it, the world is simple for them. They are faithful to the hand that feeds them. Unlike most humans.” She retracts her hand and gently places the Direwolf’s head down.. “It must be a pity he cannot be in battle tomorrow, though it saddens me to think of such a magnificent beast fighting the petty wars of man.”

“I believe you are angry at me for sending brave men to battle?”

“My anger matters not. You send sick men to their deaths.”

“I promised them freedom from the South, and they promise me their arm in battle. They know the price, I know the price, and humanity knew the price since the first tribes warred over food.”

“What must be done, must be done, you say. The wheel will keep spinning, and innocent blood will soak the ground to nourish Kingdoms with crueller Kings who thirst for more war.”

“Would not the years of peace that follow be worth it?”

“For the realm, yes, not for the families of the slain.”

“I fight for the good of many.”

“You fight for yourself. Every ruler does.”

“At least I do not fight only for my selfish reasons of hunger for power.”

“Will all be forgiven because you are the least of the evils that stench the Seven Kingdoms?”

Robb sighs. “That is the gist of it.”

“Then I am happy to treat your wounded. A devil that knows itself is better than one who does not. I have heard the soldiers talking, and your strategy is wise. Not that I know of these matters, but any fool can see you do not want to repeat your attack on Lord Tywinn Lannister’s camp where two thousand helpless men died with no mercy. But the South will lose good young men, and you will bear their death cries on your conscience till the day you die.”

“I am aware of that. I know the cost of the order I make.”

“And yet you signal the bugles to announce the battle charge?”

“Only steel and blood will see a victory in this war.”

Talisa tilts her head with a knowing smile. “How well you wash the guilt off your hands.”

Robb sighs. “You are the only person in my life who realigns my moral compass to point the arrow where it really matters. Wish I could have you on my War Council, but that would be too much for them to handle. I value your counsel. I promise to do my best to be a just and merciful King at war.”

“But does it not go against your morals to have men fight for you while you sit in safety?”

“The danger I am in is different from that which a soldier faces in the battlefield, but if the need arises I will take my own sword in hand and fight my own battle.”

“You are braver and more capable than most Kings then.”

“Thank you.”

“I will not say more until the battle is over.”

Robb nods and bows, and with one last pat on Grey Wind’s muzzle, he leaves. Talisa watches him go, and wonders how she could respect and despise a man simultaneously. 

\------

Robb returns to his chambers, and sees Theon already in bed, lying face down. Disrobing, he crawls next to him and melts against the folds of his body. Theon snuggles closer, sighing in content as his skin buzzes at the other’s touch. They share a lazy kiss, and drift off to sleep, too exhausted for more. But those who rest in each other’s arms forge an unshakeable connection more than those who scramble for physical intimacy in the desperate attempt of forming one. Icy sleet cuts jagged lines in the sky like Earth bound spears thrown by an angry god, but the two men hold each other in a intertwined cocoon of warmth through the night till the Eastern sky lightens. 

\------

Dawn descends on The Spine and The Howling Pass. 

Robb sits astride his white horse as the outlines of blades of grass become clearer in the rising sun, as do the thousands of hidden swords lying in wait on the hillside and vale below. Lady Stark is beside him on her elegant mare, surrounded by Commanders and Lords of all degrees. They are on a grassy knoll on the North face of The Spine, to the left side of The Howling Pass. Two groups of knights dot the hills, one either side of the pass. Soldiers stand row upon row in the valley, facing the pass from the North. All await the signal to attack, and all is still.

All is still, except for the little chirping birds that hop from one tuft of tiny sweet flowers to the next. All is still, except for the gentle breeze flowing through the pass, too mild to make a sound. All is till, except for the drips of moisture on rain soaked rocks that stretch skyward in a straight wall. All is still, hushed breath held back and unblinking eyes peeled in the direction of the approaching enemy, till the telltale sign of flashing metal rises over the horizon. 

Theon crouches low in the grass on the South face of The Spine, to the right of the pass. A troop of five thousand men lies concealed behind him. His sharp eyes scan the flat land before him. He grins, gritting his teeth in barely restrained excitement and anticipation, and grips the hilt of his sword tighter. The enemy ranks are yet to make an appearance. 

The flaps of a raven’s wings break the silence briefly, and the bird lands on Robb’s arm. He reads the letter, and his composure turns slightly ashen. His scouts have confirmed that the enemy is nearing, but that is not this news that momentarily halts the beating of his heart. A Sir Thobb of House Dox leads the Army from the South. Robb forces himself to breathe calmly. Is that the same man who has been tormenting them for days? Did he have time to warn Theon? Alas, no, and Robb settles into a wait of a thousand needles and pins, as does the whole pass.

First a dull boom in the distance, like the hush and sudden drop in pressure before a storm. A herd of wild deer raise their heads as one on the slopes, and scatter. The sound grows closer. Tiny rocks shower into the pass, dislodged by vibrations thorough the ground. The rumble differentiates into the thump of twenty thousand marching feet. All is still, and the first row of the enemy phalanx enters the pass. All is silent, except for their footsteps. Now, they are hallway through.

A marching soldier raises his visor when he spots the nest of twittering fledglings on a rock ledge above him, and smiles cheerfully behind the confines of his red tasselled helmet.

Robb raises an arm and brings it down sharply.

A chain of bugles blare their call for death.

A fiery arrow arcs through the air and hurtles towards the entranced soldier, who does not have the time to close his visor before it pierces his eye and he falls back with a wordless cry. 

A fractured second passes, and nothing is still, except for the soldier’s body.

A thousand fire wreathed arrows follow the first. Roars of charging men mix with screams of pain. Metal clashes against metal: Swords bend shields, shields shatter swords. Boiling oil pours from above, scalding armour and skin. The battle has begun, and the Howling Pass echoes with new meaning.

Theon’s men sneak as silent as daylight shadows to the back of the phalanx, and lie in wait. Theon holds out a cautious arm, waits for the moment of highest distraction, and charges. They have the element of surprise, and many a foe falls before they realise what had struck them. Theon’s forces trap the enemy soldiers in the pass from behind, and it is butchery within. 

Robb looks down from above. His shuddering sigh dredges sorrow from his deepest core of his soul as he watches men fall from both sides. Lady Stark lays a hand on his shoulder, giving him the strength to sit tall on his horse and be the shining source of inspiration to his soldiers below. 

A sudden cry from one of his Personal Guardsman snatches Robb’s attention, as he falls forward on the neck of his horse, an arrow sticking out the back of his head. 

A counterattack. Robb turns his horse around; quickly realising he had underestimated the enemy. They too had sent a group of soldiers around the mountain range to attack them from behind. The knights on the slope to the left of the pass look back in surprise to see the enemy behind them. Some turn and fight, some scatter in confusion. Robb leaps off his horse and unsheathes his sword. He will be joining the battle today. 

“Mother, flee!” he cries.

“Not before giving my son a goodbye kiss.” Lady Stark pulls Robb into a hug and expertly drives her dagger through a chink in the neck armour of an enemy soldier that had sneaked on him from behind. The man falls, clutching his bloody throat.

“I see only victory for you today, my son.” She smiles grimly. “My blessings be with you.” She mounts her mare and canters away to the safety of the keep, hooves clacking like claps of thunder.

And victory does seem near at first, as the dead foe pile up at Robb’s feet. But the Lannister counter attack proves strong, and the knights on the left side of the North face fall back and are driven into the pass, Robb along with them. His Guard is lost elsewhere in the melee, and only his wits and stamina and sword save him from certain death. His sword grows heavy in his hand, not from physical exhaustion but from the toll it takes from his conscience.

His sword a singing ray of destruction in his quick hand, Theon leaps lightly through the host of battle frightened faces. The spirit of battle has turned him into a machine of death. The burning anger in him just beneath his countenance, which he tries so hard to hold back, is finally let out, and no man who meets his sword stands alive. The smell of blood and sweat and power in his nose, the pleas and groans and cheers in his ear, his eyes turn into vicious slits as he loses touch of solid ground. He sees a soldier with faded yellow hair like his father, and cleaves his scalp off. He sees a long bearded man too old to be a soldier, and cuts his life short. He sees bodies and faces and eyes, and they blur into a collage of prey until he loses sight of himself as his teeth grind back wordless sobs as his body crushes into the length of burnished steel, and death of others gives him release he cannot have. He suddenly hears a long hoot, like the last cry of a dying waterfowl. A hoot he himself used to warn Robb, now directed at him from wherever his lover has seen him from, and the hate in his heart dies. The pounding in his ears quietens and his surroundings bleed into existence, and with a shuddering breath, Theon takes stock of his situation. He had pushed through enemy forces and is now in the pass, and his men, intoxicated by their Commander’s bloodlust, has charge forward into the pass too. 

A mistake. 

A bizarre situation arises in the pass, where, from the North to the South, the armies line up as follows: First the Lannister counterattack pushing forward into the pass, then the main portion of Robb’s army, and the rest of the enemy army that entered the pass from the South. Theon’s troop would have been the last in the South, but since he and his men too had entered the pass, they were caught in the middle. On the right side of the pass, the Knights of Kilts stop their attack of arrows and oil, as to shoot into the pass would now be dangerous, as the two armies have become mixed and their own comrades might get injured. They rappel down into the pass instead. 

The tables have turned and victory is a fast fading dust cloud. The Army from the North is trapped in the pass, with the enemy closing in from both ends. 

But all hope is not lost yet. 

Robb and Theon meet in the centre. Their eyes lock in understanding, calm blue ones on wild grey, and they stad back to back to face the enemy on both sides. They are indomitable together, their spirit unconquerable and their swords invincible. They move as if one, no blind spot left unguarded. They read the lightest shift in each other’s body, and attack or withhold. Any soldier that dares step up to them meet their maker in as much time as it took for him to be created. If Theon gets frantic, Robb slows him into a steady rhythm. If Robb gets sluggish, Theon picks up the tempo. They dance the waltz of death on fallen enemies. 

The wall of dead grow higher than their heads, and they are cut off from the rest of the fighting. 

“Where to, now?” gasps Theon, his breath a whistling rattle. 

Robb points to the South, and they clamber over mangled bodies. The battle rages on in senseless fury. 

Theon suddenly darts forward and ducks under swords and arms as his focus is eaten up in the pursuit of one man and one man only: a cloaked figure dodging away from them. Robb gives chase, worry lining his face when he recognises the fleeing soldier.

Thobb. 

To his astonishment, Thobb seems to disappear right in to the granite wall that forms one side of the pass, and Theon does too. He approaches cautiously, and sees a narrow split in the rock. He slips into the gully leading through it, and follows the sound of hurried footsteps as it widens out into a small cave. Jagged rocks close in from above and around, and loose sand forms the floor. The sounds of the battle are muted in here, replaced with eerie echoes. A pale circle of light beams down from above, possibly from a hole on the top of the mountainside, like that of a well.

Robb stumbles forward, and leaps back to avoid the swipe of a sword. It is Theon’s, who is engulfed in fury so great that venomous heat radiates off him. 

“Thobb,” he snarls. “You cowering dog! Come out and face me like a man!”

Thobb slinks out from behind a rock, hands held up to show he is unarmed. He stands in a crouch, maddened eyes flicking from one to another. The scar glistens abnormally in the dim light.

Robb lowers his sword, though Theon keeps his aimed at Thobb’s throat. 

“We must take him prisoner,” says Robb slowly.

“How?” snaps Theon. “We cannot very well drag him out of here through the battle”

“He is their Commander. We might be able to use him as leverage.”

“We should kill him like the swine he is,” says Theon, shaking with anger.

Suddenly, quick as a scorpion’s sting, Thobb rolls to the side, knocks Robb’s wrist with a metal studded glove and seizes his sword. Theon gives a startled cry and pushes Robb behind him as Thobb leaps up to face him. Two steady swords find their target in each other, a hair’s breadth apart. 

“I will not be taken prisoner by two cocksucking boys,” says Thobb with a warped smile that does not reach his eyes.

Theon’s face is white with red-hot rage. 

Robb is chilled with fear of the unknown. “Sir Thobb Dox, what is the meaning of your insult?”

Thobb grimaces in disgust. “I know what goes on between you two. It is no longer a secret. Soon, all will hear of this unnatural obsession, and then we shall see if your claim to the throne holds any ground.”

Robb exchanges an understanding look with Theon – the former will talk, the latter will wield the sword. Robb moves away from the two men, too far for Thobb to use him as bait, but close enough to be heard. 

“How will you prove it?” asks Robb.

Thobb pulls a piece of paper from his belt. Both Robb and Theon recognise it immediately as the letter with the poem the former sent the latter yesterday. Robb inhales sharply; the letter would be damning evidence against them. It crushes him to see an expression of love used against them wrongly.

“Your little sword boy here has terrible butterfingers,” says Thobb, laughing mockingly.

“You will not provoke me,” says Theon through gritted teeth, knowing that it was clumsiness that led to the letter ending in the wrong hands. He hopes Robb will find room in his heart to forgive him for one more stupidity. 

“What if we kill you right here, right now?” asks Robb. 

“Do not be silly enough to think that only I know of this!” says Thobb, an aggravating sneer in his voice. 

“What are your terms if we grant you safe passage out, and you keep your mouth shut?”

“You do not need to bother parleying with me.”

Thobb had been slowly edging towards the gully leading back out to the pass, and jumps towards it. Theon, for all his faults, has the eyes and reflexes of a hawk, and immediately blocks his path and sends him back sprawling with a clobber to the head. 

“Do not kill him,” orders Robb as Theon pounces on the fallen man.

Theon growls in frustration but backs away as Thobb staggers up.

“How did you become such an honourable man, Your Grace?” asks Thobb sarcastically, panting but still an intimidating presence. “Why do you value the power of negotiation so much?”

“It is better than murder.” Robb grits his teeth. “I have still more questions to ask. I have reason to believe that you are receiving inside intelligence of my camp and army. Who conveys this information to you?”

“What makes you so sure it is not your cocksman?” asks Thobb gesturing crudely at Theon with his sword.

“Liar!” shouts Theon. He jabs forward and parries Thobb’s sword thrust to graze his throat. Thobb leaps back, a cut on his throat to match the scar on Theon’s, except his weeps tears of red while Theon’s had healed.

“Answer, or it will be your whole neck,” says Robb in a voice laden with such vitriol that the other men felt themselves shiver in their boots. 

Thobb visibly shrinks back from them. “I will not talk. And if you kill me, I never will.” A self-satisfied expression dusts his face. 

Robb clenches his fists, then suddenly his brow unfurrows. “I see you wear a cloak.”

“How nice of you to notice, Your Grace, I do like your jacket too. Double stitch?”

Robb scowls. “That is irrelevant. Your cloak is made of vulture feathers. Only a knight from the Keep of Capes may wear one.” 

“I pulled it off a dead body.”

“None of the knights are wearing one today. Which means you stole one from the Keep. If they find out, what they will do to you will be much worse than either of us can inflict.”

Thobb blanches in fear. 

“Or else, someone must have given it to you. A spy perhaps?”

“Yes… I have spies in the Keep.”

“Who are they? On you head be it if you lie.”

“Sir Ravenwing and Sir Whitetooth.”

Theon gasps. They are the two Knights of Kilts given to Robb by Lord Con.

“Indeed,” says Robb. “And does Lord Con know of this?”

“Yes. And when he hears of this –” Thobb glares back, trying to regain his dominance, but one glare from Robb and one growl from Theon pushes him bodily back into the cranny he has taken refuge in. 

“What can I do with you?” asks Robb at large, as if the cave will answer. “I have no more use of you. What will be the honourable punishment for scum like you?” Robb glower menacingly. “What do you think Theon?”

Theon only smiles: A smile that would make a Direwolf quake.

“Kill me if you must,” cries Thobb desperately. “You might walk out of here alive and in victory, but everywhere you go men will turn away repulsed and women will call you weak and children will hide their faces. If you call what you have between you two love, it is a lie. You do not deserve to be called men, you wild beasts! The world will know, you cannot hide forever –”

“Silence!” thundered Robb, and the cave shook with his intensity. 

He gives Theon a nod, and the latter springs to action. Thobb defends himself with skill and Theon grows more cautious, knowing he has met a swordsman that matches him. Their sweat soaked faces swim before each other in air coagulated with loathing: Thobb’s a prejudiced rage at Theon’s heart and nature, and Theon’s an informed anger at Thobb’s words and actions. Thobb becomes bolder at Theon’s apparent reluctance, and charges forward with a flurry of swings. He knocks Theon’s sword aside, which clangs against the rock, and kicks his legs from under him. Theon falls with a grunt and rolls to the side of the cave, and Thobb picks up his fallen sword. He stabs the rock wall above him with the sword, and a cascade of debris cover Theon.

Robb cries out wordlessly, and draws out the dagger from his belt, the gift from Theon. But it is no match for a sword, and it joins Theon’s sword on the ground. Thobb leaps at Robb, who tries to retreat, but finds the cave wall behind him. His eyes gage Thobb’s stance carefully, and awaits his next move. Thobb pounces forward, and Robb knocks aside with a gloved hand his own sword aimed at his chest, but its tip embeds itself in his shoulder. His body contorts in pain, not giving Thobb the satisfaction of seeing him scream. 

A growl reverberates through the cave.

Grey Wind leaps at Thobb with a snarl, and pulls him off Robb. Thobb staggers back and falls to the ground. The Direwolf rips out his throat and drops the lifeless body, its breath puffing out in heavy gasps. 

Theon scrambles out, unhurt, the debris mostly being of dirt and roots.

Robb pulls his sword out from his shoulder, finally allowing himself to whimper. Theon is at his side at once. Robb collapses into his embrace. It takes a moment or two before either can move or speak. The sounds of the battle rise and fall in the echoing distance, and within here calming silence slowly slips in. 

“We killed him,” says Robb.

“We killed many men today.”

“But…”

“Hopefully his words died with him too.”

Robb shivers and presses his cheek against Theon’s.

Theon pulls back the cloth and armour from Robb’s shoulder and sighs when he sees the red gash on pale white skin. He kisses the wound gently. “I wish I could bear this pain for you, wish I could make him hurt more what he did to you,” says Theon in a fierce whisper.

“You have my blood on your lips,” says Robb. 

Theon wipes it away on his sleeve. “I wish it was as easy to erase your hurt.”

“Hush,” says Robb, soothingly. “You did all I could ask of you and more. I am proud of you.”

“I am proud of you, so much it hurts.”

“I did nothing but hide behind your sword like a coward.”

“You a coward? You should have seen yourself make that rat wet his pants with your words alone.”

Robb laughs, relieved. “Once again, we work better as a team, we are good at what we are.”

“If anything, I should be the one who is ashamed, I lost the letter,” says Theon. 

Robb bends over and picks it up from where it had fallen off in the tussle. “I guess you do not need this, then.”

Theon snatches it back and puts it securely in his tunic, right above his heart. “I will not lose it again.”

“Oh, you will,” says Robb. “I know you will. But that means I have to keep on writing more for you, aye? But we cannot let our enemies find them, understand?” 

Theon nods. 

Robb crouches down to pat Grey Wind. “Thank you, boy, good job.” It wags its tail.

“I thought Grey Wind was sick?” asks Theon, squatting down to scratch it behind a blood soaked ear.

“He was. Talisa’s potion must have worked.”

“Thankfully. Do we go back to the battle?”

“I can think off a faster way of resolving it. We shall go up!” He points at the circle of light on the roof of the cave, through which a patch of sky can be seen. He pulls on some creepers hanging down through it, and they hold fast. “Can you climb that?”

“I was weaned on the cliffs of Pyke on the Iron Islands,” says Theon. “I can climb this with a blindfold. How about you? With your injured shoulder?”

“With your help, I can.”

“What about the body?” Theon gestures at Thobb’s lifeless corpse with a foot.

“We do not need all of it. All we need is to find out if Thobb’s neck is thick as his head.”

\------

In the pass, swords grow weary as the sun crawls up the sky to its zenith. Both armies are at a standstill, neither willing to be overthrown. There is a cry, and a finger points up. Thousands of eyes look in the direction, squinting against the brightness. 

Robb and Theon stand at the top of the mountain, Thobb’s head hanging by the hair in Robb’s hand. “Listen!” he shouts. “We have killed the Commander of the Army from the South. A snake with its head cut off is easy to squash underfoot. Fight! We will not give up!”

“We will not give up!” echoes Sir Battlehelm in a bellow that ricochets from one rock wall to another. 

A thousand voices rose in cheers. Maybe it was the renewed vigour of the Army from the North, or the flagging confidence in the Lannister men at seeing their leader dead, but the tide turns with the sun passing to its descending path. Robb’s army fights outwards from the Howling Pass, and the enemy is corralled into a tight group. They yield and throw their weapons down in surrender.

Robb and Theon stand shoulder to shoulder, and exchange boyish grins of delight at winning. 

But the battle is not yet over. 

Half of the Lannister Counterattack had surrounded the Keep upon seeing that the main portion of the army is losing. But they had not bargained for the forces within. 

Lady Stark stands on the battlements, cloak and hair streaming against the wind. By her side are two score aging knights, some who must sit as their legs too decrepit to bear their weight. But their arms and eyes work, and they hold deadly bows and arrows. With them stand the cooks and nurses and ladies in waiting, all holding pots of boiling water or sacks of dangerously hard and rotten potatoes. The drawbridge crashes down and Lord Umber strides out, two barbed maces hanging from his wrists. “I do not fingers to wield these beauties!” he cries. “Come and get me, you lily livered beardless sons of whores!” 

“Oh my,” says Robb looking at his mother.

“He is awesome,” says Theon looking at Lord Umber.

“Attack!” shouts Lady Stark, and the enemy army at the walls of the Keep disseminate to pieces under the onslaught of the rag tag defenders. 

And victory, at last, is theirs.

\------

The aftermath of any battle is not pretty. The prisoners of war are marched into the dungeons below the keep, and the hills and pass are slowly being cleared of carcasses. Lost and unbroken weapons are collected and distributed where necessary. Food is handed to hundreds of hungry mouths. Robb wishes he is down at the battlefield checking on survivors and congratulating them for their part in the victory. But he is stuck in the sanatorium, which is abuzz with the wounded, where he is getting treated for the wound on his shoulder. 

He sits on a bed, bare to the waist, while Talisa cleans up the wound. Theon leans against the bed frame, pouting every time Talisa’s eyes drifted anywhere besides Robb’s shoulder. Robb gives a teasing grin and angles his torso in a more revealing pose. Theon scowls.

“If Your Grace would stop wriggling like a piglet," she scolds, "I might be in time to attend to people more in need of my help.”

“Is he not the most important patient here?” asks Theon stiffly.

“No, we are trying to save another soldier’s eye, he has already lost the other. This is a mere scratch.” She smiles up at Theon. “Do you not have more pressing chores to attend to?” Theon huffs. “They are serving food in the Dining Hall,” she adds as Theon’s stomach growls.

“He will go when I command him to,” says Robb.

“I will not go until you are well,” Theon replies. 

“Is that not sweet?” she asks innocently. Both Theon and Robb blush furiously. 

She picks up her needle and thread and starts sewing the wound up. “Curious how both of you got wounds at the exact same place on your shoulders, and both healing so impossibly fast.”

“We are unlucky and lucky,” says Robb, wincing each time the needle bit his flesh. Theon automatically holds his other shoulder in a comforting grip.

“That may be, but there is an extraordinary connection between you two. Some might call it unnatural, I say supernatural.” She bites the end of the thread off. “There. Now go without cluttering up my sanatorium. I have already given you more time than you ought to get.” She stands up and starts cleaning her utensils. 

Theon helps Robb into his tunic and jacket, as his arm is still sore.

“I almost forgot Talisa,” says Robb. “Thank you for saving Grey Wind’s life.”

“Thank me when I save all the lives of the wounded men. See you soon,” says Talisa. “I see either of you down here more often than anyone else.” She walks away with a toss of her head and a glittering smile. 

Robb stares at her in wonder.

“You better not ditch me for her,” growls Theon in his ear. 

“Never! I just enjoy her clever tongue and forthright speech.”

“And I like the way her ass looks in a nurse’s garb, but I do not drool, do I?”

Robb playfully punches him in the gut and strides out of the ward. 

Theon walks behind him and whistles appreciatively. “It matters not, I get to have the best ass for miles around.”

Robb groans, and increases his pace to outstrip Theon’s wandering hands. They sit through dinner, thankfully too far apart for anything impolite for social eyes. But halfway through the meal, Sir Battlehelm, who happens to be seated by Robb, leaves with a stomach upset with too much food, and Theon nonchalantly slides into the vacant seat. All is well until his thigh presses against Robb’s and his foot overlaps his. Hands wander, and Robb and Theon keep a blank face through it all. They manage to make it to their bedchamber with decorum, but once inside, the same cannot be said. If the first night had been two new lovers hesitantly exploring each other, the second night a wild flight of ecstasy, the third a companionable and comforting cuddle, then tonight was a delightful playful romp that is at neither the wild extremes or the safe middle, but a directionless adventure that only two lovers can dance and trip and skip along to. The flashes of lightening became their glowing faces; thunder their laughter and the rain the rhythm of their movement until the early hours of the morning brought snuffling kisses and shuffling embraces as they fell to calming and soothing sleep at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

The Mistress of Tapestries rises up before the break of dawn, and lifts the holder of a lit candle off her bedside table. Yawning, she makes her way down blue-black cold hallways to an antechamber leading off the Great Hall, where resides the Seamstresses’ Room. After every battle of importance, women from nearby villages gathered there to begin work on a tapestry depicting a crucial event, to be added among the rafters of the Hall. It had been unanimously decided to portray Robb Stark, the King of the North, and Theon Greyjoy up on the mountain looking over the Howling Pass, holding high the enemy commander’s severed head. The ladies had set to work immediately, and the outline had been set out on a length of rich fabric, each detailed etched carefully with loving hands. 

She enters the room, and sets light to some sconces to shed light upon their latest creation. 

She gasps in horror. 

The tapestry lay in ruins. 

A corner had been left carelessly close to the fireplace, and a glowing ember had blown over. Half the tapestry was blackened and curled under the ravages of tongues of flame. The opposite end of the tapestry had been beset by icy sleet from the open window, and rain soaked cloth blurred and distorted the work of countless minutes. The centre of the tapestry was, curiously, untouched. The lines of Thobb’s cruel faced stood out in stark clarity. With a flap of wings and an eerie caw, a raven flies in and perches on the untouched circle. 

The seamstress irritably claps her hands and chases away the bird, then looks crossly at the destruction. Well, they better start again, she thinks as she clears the remains away. 

\------

Robb wakes up, and lazily stretches his arms. His fingers do not brush against the usual cool body beside him, and he sits up groggily. As his drowsy eyes register the image before him, his smile widens. Theon sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, clad only in his kilt, eyes squinting as his finger traces the lines on a book on his lap. Robb crawls up to him and tosses half the sheet around him too. He rests his chin on Theon’s shoulder from behind, and Theon turns to give him a quick kiss on the nose. 

“I could get used to waking up to the sight of you reading a book,” murmurs Robb.

Theon laughs self-consciously.

“What are you reading?” Robb reaches out, but he does not have to check the spine to recognise the title, he knows the words so well. He gasps in delight. “Isurhea Varyana! I did not know you cared for poetry at all!”

“Not until today,” Theon makes a sour face. “I borrowed this off Talisa, and I had to give an blood oath I will protect it with my life.” He tilts his head in concentration. “It will never be my favourite past time, but I can see why you like her work.” 

That was his cue to rattle of everything he could think of on this topic, but Robb pauses when he sees Theon zoning out. He chuckles and raps him on the head. “Alright, that is enough for today. There is only so much I can ask of you to share my interests!”

“Hmm…” agrees Theon. 

“We better head down –” says Robb, but Theon puts a finger to his lips.

“There is time. We are heroes of a battle, we will be forgiven if we sleep late.”

“We are heroes.” Robb’s words were a statement, not an uncertain question or a plaintive wish. 

“Aye.” Theon slips out from under the sheet and goes to the window. He revels himself in the gentle morning sun. “I feel different. As if this victory has a purpose. A victory I feel a part of, not someone else’s victory I was a part of.” He blushes as Robb joins him. “I believe that is because the victor is a part of me now.”

Robb winds his arms around Theon’s waist. “And my victory is yours, and I share your feeling.”

“I feel invincible. As if we can life forever, you and I. We survived a harsh battle out on the field, what can we not weather now?”

“All that the world can throw at us.”

“You hear that, world?” shouts Theon out to the vast sky above. “Nothing can stop us now.” He turns to Robb. “Come on.”

Robb hesitates. “I would not dare.” Then he suddenly grins and whispers in Theon’s ear: “Nothing can stops us now.”

“I do not think anyone besides me heard that.”

“But you are my world.”

Theon rolls his eyes. “Lucky that I am already in love with you, that would have made me throw myself off the battlements otherwise. And lucky, too, that the world is made of both good and bad and in between, as I am all.”

“Well, the better it becomes the more evil we uproot. My mind is easy that we are free of Thobb’s hold over us. He was like our shadowself, always heralding doom for us and driving wedges between us. He is the worst of you and me.”

“We are indebted to Grey Wind, he is the constant force that saves us from destruction.”

Robb smiles fondly. “You have been reading too much poetry.”

“Aye,” says Theon with a grimace. “I need something in return.”

Robb’s hands slide underneath Theon’s kilt. “What do you have in mind? You tried something new for me, and I will follow suit.”

“Now we are talking,” says Theon, eyes lively. “Hm… do you have any wine in the room, or are we still too prudish?”

Robb blushes. “I might have sneaked in another bottle.”

“My, someone has changed a lot since I sucked his finger.”

“You know it is not because of that.”

“To think I would do silly things like that to get your attention, and now…”

“I am glad you did, I would never have dared reveal my feelings otherwise.”

“I hope feelings are not all you plan on revealing to me today.” Theon picks up the bottle and uncorks it with his teeth. 

\------

Robb calls for a War Council to deal with all matters related to yesterday’s battle. He and Theon walk into the Great Hall together, and some hands rise in a salute of awed greeting, some in a firm grip of congratulations, but a few stay behind backs hidden in cloaks. The shifty eyes of the last collection of men hold secrets of a secret, and Robb worries how many knows of what Thobb threatened them with, and his heart simmers bitterly. Theon senses their scornful stares, and a chill runs through his brittle bones.

The meeting proceeds: The lists of the death finalised and ravens dispatched, funeral services held, medals of bravery awarded, the transportation of the prisoners organised, the further movements of the enemy tracked, and loses of the battle accounted for. Robb handles these with the ease of an efficient and effective administrator, and moves on to more important, at least to him personally, points on the day’s agenda.

“There were accusations earlier of Theon Greyjoy’s alleged involvement in a transferring information of my whereabouts to the enemy. I can put an end to this speculation once and for all. During the battle, Sir Thobb Dox, the Commander of this consignment of the Army from the South, confessed that there were indeed two spies within the camp.”

Murmurs of disbelief. 

“Sir Ravenwing and Sir Whitetooth,” announces Robb, and the two men are brought forward in chains. Robb had his Guards find them after the battle, and they had been caught attempting to desert over The Spine. They had spent the night in the dungeons.

Sir Battlehelm stands up with aplomb. “You mangy curs! Betraying your own King!” He walks over and grabs their heads and smacks them together. “What have you done, eh? Give us a full report.”

Robb swallows thickly. He definitely does not need a full report, as there are several bits of information that he would rather not be revealed.

“Thank you for your enthusiasm, Sir Battlehelm. But I will handle the questioning.”

Sir Battlehelm nods and returns to his seat.

Robb continues: “First, do you know of their treachery?”

“Me?” Sir Battlehelm looks scandalised. “My fealty lies with the current lord of the Keep, which is you. I will never speak a word against you.” He turns to the two down cast men. “These tubs of lard have gone soft at Lord Con’s court, and twisted by his promises of money, no doubt.”

“I have complete trust in you, Sir Battlehelm. Their spying began on the march here, before you could have given them instructions. Your record is clear.” Robb turns to the kneeling knights. “Do you accept the charges of treachery against the crown and spying on our enemies behalf?”

The knights are silent.

“You will answer, or the gods help me, I will rip your tongues out and make them talk!” bellows Sir Battlehelm. 

First one knight, then the other, pleads guilty.

Theon releases a sigh of relief he did not realise he was holding back.

Sir Battlehelm deflates. “I held you as babes and took your oaths as younglings.” He suddenly stands up to shout: “Is this the way you repay my generosity and gratitude?” He paces up and down roaring, while the rest of the Council look on the fascination of watching a circus lion. “Your families will be shamed! No descendant may enter the ranks of the Knights in Kilts!” He stops, breath heaving. “You will be put to death.”

Robb stops the Knight Protector from working himself up to a lather. “Death might be too harsh a judgement.”

“Spare your kindness, Good King, this is The Spine, and we do thing differently here.” Sir Battlehelm closes his hands over his stomach solemnly. “They will be left naked on the hillside, and may the rain and vultures have mercy on them. Let other Knights make an example of this. I will hear no more of it.”

Robb nods with a sorrowful frown, and the two knights are taken away. 

Sir Battlehelm looks at them being dragged out the door, and spits on the floor. “I am tired of answering to a foppish Lord many leagues away commanding us as he wishes. Plans to sell us to the South, spies in our ranks, and plots to betray the King; these are not actions our proud Knights believe in. We shall answer to Lord Con no more. I say we regain our independence! The Binding of the Three Thickets has bound us for long enough. The Knights of Kilts shall rule the Keep of Capes again! We will swear our allegiance to whoever we please, and in this war, I see only one King!” He holds out his sword to Robb.

Robb, though surprised, quickly nods benevolently. “We are indeed grateful for your support. Lord Con will be charged with treason. Do you have a good man we might send with my letter charging him of his crimes and declaring your independence?” 

“I do,” says Sir Battlehelm. “But it is no he. I will send my daughter. A Keep is no place for a young girl. She and her new husband will ride to Castle Bunco, and put things in order there.”

“Excellent,” says Robb. He is glad, as having The Knights as direct allies is better than through Lord Con, who he was a fool to trust.

The letter is dispatched.

“Theon Greyjoy, please step to the middle of the room,” says Robb, his deep regal voice not betraying a note of intimacy.

Theon keeps his face blank and does so, making a mental note to ask Robb to use the same voice at the bedchamber tonight.

“You are cleared of any speculative charges of treason. Any objections?”

The room is silent.

Robb allows himself a small smile, as does Theon. It is not often Theon finds the scorn of others not aimed at him, and when he does it is a feeling he treasures.

“Very well, we shall move on –” begins Robb but a scuffle at the opposite end of the long table catches his attention. “Does anyone wish to speak?”

Lord Umber stands up slowly. “We Councilmen have been discussing, Your Grace. We feel that Theon has to answer himself for directly disobeying your command and strategy by charging into the Howling Pass instead of acting as a sneak attack on the rear of the enemy. His troop was trapped inside the pass as well because of that rash action, and they would have been a great help if they were on the outside. We may have lost less men.” He holds up a finger when Robb tries to speak. “We do acknowledge and appreciate his quintessential role in turning the battle around, by fighting alongside you at the heat of the battle. He aided in defeating Sir Thobb, without which the battle would have dragged on for longer, and we might not have won at all.” He spreads his hands expressively and lays his palms on the table. “However, the War Council feels that for the benefit of maintaining unbiased integrity through the ranks, he be punished for disobedience. The usual protocol demands a hundred lashes.”

Robb is silent for a minute. An avalanche descends on him on a sunny day.

Theon, too is shocked into silence. Three powerful emotions course through the hitherto calm lake of his mind like searing white tongues of fire. Anger. At being betrayed by those who he though had finally accepted him, at them for still seeing him as an unruly outsider who needs to be beaten and abused, at his incompetency to stop them, at rage himself for still trying to surpass himself every time to win their approval to no avail. Shame. At being guilty of the charge against him, as he had outright disobeyed Robb’s orders and put the battle strategy in turmoil and surely had only luck to thank for the result being in his favour. Shame at failing as a soldier bound by loyalty. Shame at failing his fellow soldiers, and shame at failing Robb. But all of these selfish emotions took back a step in the face of the last that now took hold of his entire being. Empathy. His heart aches to think of the tough position he puts Robb in daily. Robb loudly proclaims that he trusts Theon, but he continually gives him reasons to doubt, another mistake to forgive, another issue for Robb to deal with and salvage the messes he leaves behind. Yes, he did crave acceptance, and felt the world turned their back on him. Yes, he did know he was often in the wrong, and depended on others to put things right. But he had learnt that putting another person before himself was the biggest sacrifice a man can make. He is finally ready to face his just desserts, and not put Robb at sword point for his sake. Robb does not deserve that pressure on top of all his other worries. It was a form of betrayal in itself, he could deceive himself, but he could not deceive Robb on promises of doing better and not following through. Time to make a change, and the first step is admitting faults and accepting consequences. The new born empathy in Theon’s heart pushes him to stand tall, look everyone in the eye and speak loud and clear. “I plead guilty to this charge, and will bear any punishment deemed worthy, and swear my renewed obedience to the King of the North.”

A tempest of emotions batters against Robb’s mind. An earth-shattering realisation: the niggling voice at the back of his mind questioning Theon’s integrity disappears. Lately, it has grown louder as his love for the other took root and flowered. Till this moment, a selfish part of him thought a disgustingly unnerving thought: that he was better than Theon. He had denied it to himself, and told Theon to think themselves as equals in numerous occasions. But now finally, he could say without a trace of doubt that Theon was a true and noble and honest man. He did not need to read Theon’s thoughts as he stood before him, shoulders proud and confident, finally taking himself in his own hands and standing his ground. The sly look that haunted his face was gone. Robb can finally look at him as his equal. He sees him at his best. 

Robb tries to figure out the next course of action. Should Theon be punished or not? Three factors weigh like stone chains around his verdict. First, the rules of war clearly stated that disobedience on the battlefield was among the worst crimes against the King, and punishable even by death. A hundred lashes was lenient in comparison, but some form of punishment will be required if he was to save face against a charge of biased favouritism. Second, of what he heard of the soldiers’ chatter last night at dinner, Theon and he were regarded as heroes. Their bravery at the war had won more respect than he could through any speech. Theo had always been popular with the masses and lower ranks, and now they worshiped him. He remembers his former squire near faint when Theon gave him a pat on the head. How would the soldiers react if they see their hero whipped? What would they think of the King that ordered it? Third, the War Council is a fickle beast. They had personal vendettas against Lord Greyjoy, and took it out on his son. When they needed someone to blame, may be just for their own amusement, Theon bore its brunt. He knew at least some among them suspected they were lovers, either through the two convicted Knights, or through their own observations. They could not very well direct their derision at their King, so Theon was the easy target.

He takes a breath. A punishment must be chosen. One that does not displease the soldiers, and pleases the Council. However, he better test the waters first.

“A hero on the battlefield is usually consecrated, not reprimanded,” he says to the Council. 

The Council nods. They too were moved by Theon’s resilience and dignity. They had expected a tantrum, the pointing of fingers. The usual use of impudence and humour as self-defence. Not self-acceptance. 

Once again Lord Umber acts as their spokesperson. “Aye. We are humbled by Theon Greyjoy’s prowess at war and general conduct. We see whatever punishment you choose as fitting.” He turns to Theon. “Theon, it pains me to insist on this, but rules are what makes men civilised.”

Robb nods and turns to Theon. “Theon is a man who will be besotted with praise from soldiers and knights alike every step he takes. A suitable punishment would be where he gets none of that. I propose solitary confinement.”

Theon feels paralysed. 

The council mumbles among themselves. “For how long?” questions a Lord.

“What does the Council agree on?”

More hushed mutters. “Two weeks.”

“A fortnight it is. Do you agree to these terms, Theon Greyjoy?”

“I accept.” Theon’s voice is unfaltering and strong.

Even Robb’s attuned heart in the room must admit that he was in the presence of a man who has experienced some growth, and is wiser for it. 

Lord Umber stands up and claps. It is slow at first, even out of place, even a tad self-conscience. But the others join in, and Theon basks in loud cheers of validation he searched for so long. “You are true hero, laddie!” he hears Sir Battlehelm shout. Yes, everything might not have been solved in the space for a few minutes, and respect is easily lost, but for that moment, Theon was truly happy. And his happiness was destined to double, for Robb stands up from his seat and strides up to him. He does not care who sees him and what they think of it. He pulls Theon into an embrace more heartfelt than any they have shared before. Theon slowly melts into the embrace, his first genuine smile light on his lips. Shouts of joy continue to shower them, and it seems endless. 

But the end is near. 

The cawing of a raven cuts harshly through the cheers.

Silence falls. 

A big black brute of a bird appears at the topmost window of the Great Hall. It frames the small square, blocking out the sun, its spread wings darkening the room. 

A single feather spirals down, absorbing all light in the room, and slips through a crack between two hulking rock slabs on the paved stone floor. 

The raven follows in a slow descent and lands on Robb’s chair. It eyes him quizzically, as if formulating a judgement for a crime.

Robb approaches it cautiously and reaches out with a hesitant hand. It pecks a finger sharply and Robb hisses in pain. Theon steps up next to him and eyes the bird carefully, gauging and predicting its every move. His hand shoots out suddenly and grips it around its neck. He holds back the bird’s thrashing wings with the other, and Robb quickly slid out the capsule with the message from its clawing leg. Theon releases the bird, and it disappears skyward with a hideous screech. 

Robb snaps open the capsule and takes out the letter. It is a paper of a golden hue, ornate engraving along the edges. It is not necessary to look at the sigil to know it is from King’s Landing itself, probably by the Queen Reagent Cersei Lannister’s own hand. Robb opens the letter with unwilling fingers. 

He reads.

Theon has seen Robb face great pains, and he though he saw him face his darkest hour when news of his father’s death reached them. But now he watches in stunned selfless silence as Robb’s face cracks and crumples and curls in soundless cries. Then Robb’s face freezes in an agonised mask, blank and expressive in the same second. It is tragic and beautiful and all things in between, and Theon yearns to claw it away and find out what had hurt his love.

Theon reads the letter.

He is not a man who immediately lets his thoughts and emotions show on his face, he keeps it locked inside. He had at last brought himself to open up, but the contents of the letter shut it all inside a fragile glass bottle with his heavy heart as its padlock. He sways slightly on his feet, as if tremors from within are trapped from breaking out.

Murmurs rustled through the Great Hall.

“Your Grace,” whispers Theon.

Robb does not respond.

“Robb,” says Theon.

Robb looks at him slowly. 

“If the response to this letter is to cut every throat from here to the hand that wrote it, I can do it – or die trying. But that is not what we need now. We need words and a strong backbone and a clear heart. All of which you have. Speak.”

Robb nods, takes a deep breath and the expression from before melts to his usual one of regal composure. 

He turns to the room. “I think Lady Stark should be present before I read the letter out loud.”

A runner is sent to fetch her, and she soon arrives and takes a seat. If she is surprised to be called, she does not let it show. She watches keenly, for she it is her watchword to observe and learn before speaking. 

Robb clears his throat. “It is a letter from Sansa Stark, my sister, held captive in King’s Landing, by Cersie Lannister. We know that means these are the Queen Reagent’s own words. She bids us well, and follows with the usual pleasantries.” His voice fades.

“But what does the letter say?” asks Lord Umber. 

“There is an allegation – or a threat, depending on how you look at it.”

“What?” questions the Lord.

“A rumour.”

“Ah, the worst kind of threat or allegation,” says Sir Battlehelm, leaning forward and putting a hand to his chin. “Well, what does the Queen Witch have to say?”

Theon is a barely contained bundle of nerves, his fingers tying and untying and retying the straps of his sword belt.

Robb sits down on his chair, his body language easy grace and revealing nothing. He speaks with simple authority: “She writes that she knows some information of me from a reliable source close to me, and would not hesitate to use it to poison minds against me. She believes that Theon and I are lovers.”

Silence hears silence as his words register in the ears of all present, and faces changes in reaction. Widened eyes of a few faces register that of shock, as if being told something they never guessed at all. Curving smiles of more show the satisfaction of having their suspicions put to rest. Furrowed foreheads of two faces internalise their responses, one of Lady Stark whose expression is unreadable, and the other is Lord Umber whose face flicker quickly from panic to guilt to determination. 

He is the first to speak. 

“That is not a rumour.” Lord Umber stands, and the gathering turn to him as one. “That is a lie.”

A hubbub voices contradict and consent his claim.

“Fools!” screams Lord Umber. “Do you not see that Cersei plays you all like puppets? Spreading discord born of distrust, born of doubt? And yet you let her pull your strings and argue like toddlers!”

Another Lord stands up. “There must be some truth in what she says.”

“And if it is a lie, I would rather hear it in their own words!” demands another.

Theon looks down at his ring finger on his left hand, to which the circle of wheat Robb gave him four days ago still clings on to. It had taken him safely through much, from the first night they slept together to the battle they fought together, and he had gotten use to the feel of it on his finger. He rubbed it with the forefinger and thumb of the other hand, and the faded brown stalk crumbles to dust. Sickening words from earlier creep into his mind. The unwanted son of a defeated Lord brought to the good Stark household, scheming against their innocent son and corrupting him with his influence. Maybe that was the part he was to play all along. Give his life in order for Robb to survive. Give up his coveted reputation for Robb’s name to remain untarnished. He just has to open his mouth and shoulder all the blame. 

Robb looks at him, keenly, and suddenly realises what he is about to do. That will ruin both of them, and push the situation out of control. He has to do something, anything. His rattled mind is in danger of total disintegration. What can he do? Feign surprise? Deny? Kiss Theon? Weep? What can he do? Speak, he can speak, and make extra seconds his crutch. Robb straightens his spine. ‘Lords!” he thunders and draws the room to him from the middle of the Great Hall. “We do not have to defend our honour. You know us as men. You have watched us grow, you have supped at our table, and you have fought by our side. Look within yourself and ask if we are any less men by this lie. Words on a piece of paper do not define us. Think of what we have said and done for you, your families and country. Tell me now, is there anything left to ask?” his eyes rake through the hall, challenging those who dare to speak against him. 

Lord Umber turns to Robb, and Theon behind him. “I have learnt nothing today to shaken my loyalty to you.” He smiles grimly. “Robb, you had my trust since you proved that you would not take any crap from an old curmudgeon like me when you set your wolf on me at that feast long ago and I lost a few good fingers. And Theon, a man who faces his flaws and pulls through is more a man than the greatest warrior.” 

“Aye!” bellows Sir Battlehelm. “I will not hear of any hogwash against the two lads, not under my roof!”

Most men now shade their expression, some shame-faced some sincere. 

Lady Stark addresses the room. “Cersie and her Small Council are known for their twisted tongues and far more twisted loyalties. They destroyed my husband, and now they wish to do the same to my son. This will not end if we let her entrap us with her words. If nothing else, we have larger issues to resolve than this letter and the deceptive words it carries. Let Robb and Theon speak for themselves.”

Robb and Theon look to each other, as if asking permission to lie. Theon shakes his head slowly, and Robb stands up slowly. “I will neither deny nor accept this rumour. I will leave you the judge of that. I know you are loyal to me. However, if someone did find their loyalty shaken today, they may leave this War Council and never darken its doors again.”

None of the cold-blooded schemers depart.

Theon draws his sword. “And if anyone here calls me a lesser being, let me prove you wrong here and now.”

None of the red-blooded agitators rise.

Robb exhales his anxiety, and Theon lowers his sword.

“Councilmen, we will talk of this no more, and I trust you will quench this rumour like a spider where ever you see it scurry. As for the rest of the world who cares about business that is not theirs –” He tears the letters in half. 

The two pieces of papers spin to the floor, and Theon scowls and stab them with his sword. 

Lord Umber starts to laugh at this childish display of temper, and uneasy guffaws follow his lead. 

The tension in the air drawn like a taut wire between Robb and Theon relaxes. 

Robb holds up a hand. “I think we are done for the day. Council dismissed.”

Some feet run out faster than if wild dogs were after them, some plod by thoughtfully, and a few linger as they reluctantly exit. 

“I will speak about this later,” says Lady Stark, in a voice that made Robb feel very small. 

“Yes, Mother,” he says, looking down and putting his hands behind his back. 

She leaves, but not before shedding a warm smile at Robb. She tries to extend her smile to Theon as well, but something holds her back.

The hall empties, and Theon cautiously approaches Robb. Before he can make a sound, two heavy hands grip them both by the shoulders. 

“Boys, you are in dangerous waters now," says Lord Umber. "A she-monster curls her coils around your wrecked ship and the seas are full of sharks. You two are idiots, but you are brave, very brave.” He sighs. “Braver than I can imagine. I helped save your hides today, but I will not always be around.” 

He turns to Theon. “You rascal, keep that blood filled head of yours in check.” He laughs at his own joke. “Harm a single hair of the King, and I swear I will take that sword of yours and shove it so deep in you, you will wish you never parted your legs.” Theon’s jaw drops in horror and he nods rapidly. Lord Umber laughs and claps him on the back. “You have got a lot of spirit and strength in you, do not let that go to waste.”

Lord Umber turns to look at Robb in the eye. “Your father was a great man. I was proud to be his Bannerman, and now I am proud to be yours. You will fight different battles than he, and fight the same battles as he. Different, but you are on his way to be his equal. Mind you, you are the true King of the North.” He chuckles. “Though I hope you will bend over for no other man than Theon.”

“I will keep that in mind.” Robb shakes his hand, a small smile lightening his face. 

Lord Umber grows sombre. “I only ask one condition, if I may. If a decision befalls you, I pray that you choose the realm over each other. Your love for each other may be strong, but the ultimate love a man can feel is for the soil that grew him. When the time comes, do what is right for the land.”

“The decision you speak of is a dire one indeed. Your loyalty and advice will not be forgotten,” Robb says gratefully.

“It damn better not be, or I swear I will –” Laughter returning to his eyes, Lord Umber shakes his head and pauses. “Too rude for such soft ears. Good night and good luck.” He strides off muttering to himself about the stupidities of young love. 

Robb and Theon stand in the lengthening shadows of the echoing hall. They long to seek solace in each other’s arms, but even the night might be too weak a shield now.

Robb looks at Theon, tired. “That was a lot to take in.”

“And not in an enjoyable way.”

“No, Theon, I am in a mood for your jokes.”

“That is the only way I can process all of this. Now you go get a scolding from mummy, I will be in the kitchen getting a bite, as naughty little Theon will miss dinner as an evil king banished him to a lonely cell.”

Robb chuckles. “I will miss you.” He briefly lets his fingers brush against Theon’s. “Two weeks will fly by. But I do not know how long it will take for the rest of the storm to blow away, or if it is here to stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Robb climbs on wobbly feet up the steep stone steps etched on the outer walls of the Keep to the battlements above. Lady Stark stands still in the twilight, her face darkened with apprehension. Robb resolutely pushes back a lock of hair whipped out of place by whispering winds, and approaches her stiffly.

“Good Evening, Mother.”

“Aye, and pleasant weather too.”

Robb chews on his lip. “I must apologise -”

“Apologise!” she chuckles in disbelief. “Why would you do that? You have done nothing wrong, except be an irresponsible young man blinded by infatuation, but that is true to all growing men.”

“Are you not ashamed of me?” 

“Ashamed.” Her eyes grow indignant. “I am not ashamed of you.” She draws him into a hug. “You are a man all mothers should be proud to call their son. When I bore you to your father, I saw the mark of his determination and strength in your stubborn cries and his wisdom and compassion in your scrunched up little brow. You readily listen to my well-meant advice, and come to me for comfort even now. You are not a man afraid of his feelings, and men like you are few and far in between. Others might see a boy trying to fill his father's shoes, eager to play at battles and longing to prove himself as a man, but I see a person who does not need to.” She steps back to hold Robb by the shoulders. “Your father wanted an honourable son, I want an honest one. Tell me the truth.”

“I love Theon.”

“And?”

“I know that is not something the masses want to hear from their King.”

“So?”

“I know I must put the good of the people and the land before myself. I have promised to marry Lord Frey's daughter to protect peace for both. It must be done.”

“What do you want?”

“To be with Theon till death parts us.”

“But?”

“That cannot be.”

She sighs and turns to watch the first fire pits be lit by the road to the Keep. “Your father and I were fortunate enough to marry who we loved. But love does not win wars or stop death. I wish I could give you my blessings, as such they may be, but I do not know the future.”

“I understand.”

“Will you live and love in secret?”

Robb’s thoughts war against each other, but he slowly shakes his head. “I cannot hide for ever, nor ask that of Theon.”

“Then a parting is inevitable. Not by death, but by life, which can be much cruller and unjust. But love knows no parting, if it burns strong from the distance.” She lays a hand on his shoulder. “You do know that the men cowed by your grace today will strike later, do you not?”

Robb nods.

“Both you and Theon will get hurt. You will be protected among us, but he is more vulnerable.”

“Are you asking me to let him go?”

“I ask nothing of you bedsides your happiness and safety, both of which are at risk.”

“I do not think I can feel happy or safe without him.”

“Then it will be your decision, I merely speak my mind as someone who cares for you with a love that puts Mother Nature to shame.”

Her fire lit tears reflect those on Robb's wet cheeks. She wipes them away with the same gentle touch every time he scraped his knee as a child.

“But, I have one concern.”

Robb looks at her, sensing the worry in her voice.

“I respect your choice in who you love, but I must be truthful. I do not hold Theon in high regard. No, do not interrupt me, Robb. I have known him since he was a boy of ten. There was always something sly and shrewd about him. An insincere quality that changes on whim to the mercy his insecurities. I have never believed him until today. He has convinced me, but I do not know for how long.”

“I assure you I have complete faith in him.”

“And that gives me pause. You have grown to be a stronger warrior and leader as of late, but you turn reckless day by day. You are distant from the rest of us, more neglectful of your duties. Some may have noticed that your behaviour at dinner last night was not disciplined to fit a King's.”

“I have sensed that too,” says Robb, hanging his head. “I will not repeat this.”

“I know you will not. A little entertainment is good, but within boundaries.” She pats his cheek. “You are a King, after all, not a schoolboy.” 

Robb chuckles. “Thank you, Mother.”

“I will be there to scold you as long as I am around. I was livid the day Theon lured you away in the middle of the first day of the march.”

Robb gasps. “How long have you known?”

“A mother,” - she smiles secretively - “makes it her business to know all of her child’s romantic dalliances.”

Robb blushes. “Not all of it, I hope. I have gotten very… educated recently.”

Lady Stark laughs, and Robb feels a different warmth spread through his chest, that of acceptance. 

“Mother?”

“Yes?”

“Have you known about me since I was a child?”

Lady Stark ponders. “How can I really say for sure? You are no Lord Varys, and neither a Lord Renly for that matter. I believe humans come in all shades and forms and shapes.”

Robb smiles to himself. 

“Alright, you do not need me yammering in your ear any longer. Go talk to Theon. He needs your reassurance more than you need mine.”

Robb hugs his mother for long, and then hurries down on steadier feet. 

Lady Stark turns back to the night sky and breathes in deeply. She folds her hands against the cold mist coming off the moors and wonders what the future holds for her son. She is startled by the raucous caws of a raven that strayed too close to the sparks off fire that shoots out from a blazing pit. It flies away into the dark, the outline of its singed feathers burning bright in the dark. 

\------

I was willing to give it all away, thinks Theon. If events had gone differently, and he had spoken out, he would not be walking down the hallway to the kitchen, but be locked in the dungeons below. He sees a trio of knights walk past and they doff their helmets and raise a hand in greeting. Will they have reacted the same if they knew? And would he have missed their greeting, if their reaction is the opposite? He thought back to the day after the war began. Robb had taken for granted that he would be in his War Council, and was actually offended when Theon asked if he was. Robb had insisted that he take a seat, and Theon gladly accepted. But he was wary. Winning the respect and trust and affection of the biased and partial Councilmen would be an uphill struggle, but a struggle he planned on winning. He had found most meetings uncomfortable, and often felt not much more than a glorified aide to Robb as he continually found himself at his right hand and carrying out his bidding. He then began to sit at the back, and be less involved. Robb tried to have his opinion heard and his vote cast with influence, but both knew that Theon was out of his element. Theon felt a certain sense of achievement when he confronted Lord Umber two days ago before the battle, and ousted him from his seat at that. He felt for the first time that the Councilmen held him in some regard, even if for humiliating Lord Umber who they found pompous and not because of his own merit.

But he did sense his own merit be appreciated during the battle. He always felt that he was held suspended in the space between the council and the soldiers, neither here nor there. He had felt more comfortable among the soldier’s mess. They were natural and down to Earth and honest in their own way, and Theon felt his wisecracks were better received with them. And on the bloody field, he won the soldier’s hearts. Last night had been as series of delightful cheers and claps on the backs and smiling faces. Theon admitted he felt his heart swell twice its size, and he had earned this praise with his own skill and mettle. But he had not impressed the Council. Not even when his name was cleared of treachery. But he had yet again proved himself better than their petty squabbles by accepting his punishment. And their reaction was sweet music in Theon’s ears, he had finally received the validation he craved from a band of powerful men he was not sure if he hated or not. It mattered not, he had bested them. He had seen his castle being built, torn down, and rebuilt stronger. 

Then came the letter. Where did opinions lie now?

And Theon realised that the attention he so desperately wanted did not matter. He had worked hard at it, received it even, avoided losing it maybe, and now he knew that it did not add any value to him at all. It was a shiny cloak he might don on for society to shower praise on, but it was false. 

There was one thing that was true in all of this.

Robb.

He was the only one he would let rule beside him in his castle. 

For the only appreciation he had received recently without no proof required or guarantee expected or collateral in return was Robb’s. Robb had loved him for he is, loved him when he called him out on his flaws, and loved him when he tried to become a better man. He was the only one who actively helped him be better and not loose himself, instead of waiting on the sides to judge how he would fair to decide on a sneer or a compliment. Robb put himself out there for him, and finally he was able to do the same. Albeit in a very different way than he expected. 

He had treated himself to grand fantasies where he rescued Robb from marauding armies to win his heart, or defeat a mythical dragon if that was what it took. He secretly hoped he could be the one to chop of Jeoffrey Baratheon’s head to avenge Lord Stark and kill the sadness in Robb’s heart. But, the more he grew to know Robb, he realises that such grand gestures held no value. Robb needs someone to be there for him. If he has to cry, if he has to negotiate, if he has to fight, he just wants someone by his side. As equals. And finally Theon is ready to let go of fanciful notions of his triumphing glory and step into his place with complete sincerity. 

And the cost of this realisation is for him to agree to lock himself away for a fortnight. Hardly a comforting thought. Does this mean that for him to serve Robb, he had to remove himself? No, Theon tells himself, he is reading too much into the situation. But the fact stands that if he is to be of use to Robb, he may have to say goodbye. Robb needs him by his side, and Theon is finally ready to be there, but it seems that the world was not yet perfect for that to be so. 

All the validation he sought would be in vain, as the same source he blindly asks it from keeps him apart from the truest source he could search for it with eyes wide open. His castle would turn to ice, sans him and sans Robb. 

Theon sighs, and with an aching confused heart, he walks on where his feet lead him. 

\------

The echoes of Robb’s hurrying footsteps are drowned in the crowded courtyard. People move out of his way, faces mouth “Your Grace” and eyes follow his every movement. He enters the quieter hallway leading to the kitchen, and peeps in through the door. He does not spot Theon's tousled yellow curls anywhere, even though a few soldiers of the night guard eat at the tables. He walks away, wondering where he could be. His feet trace a familiar path and he finds himself at the back corridor that connects the Great Hall to the Courtyard, and he wanders through it. There are no lights down here, and he puts his hands before him to feel his way, his boots scuffing against the uneven paving. He almost makes it to the end and a square of dim grey light appears. Robb hurries, and his fingers scrunch against the cold skin of a body.

He gasps when strong arms grip him and lips graze his cheek. “Greetings, My Grace. You have found me.”

Robb can make out the grey of Theon's eyes in the gloom. “How did you know it was me?”

“For a soldier, you make a lot of noise. And I have lain beside you long enough to know your breathing in my sleep.”

Robb smiles fondly. “And I can still never sense your presence.”

“I have a reputation to uphold,” says Theon with a chuckle. 

Robb laughs mirthlessly. “Speaking of reputations, I cannot believe that a Stark would turn on a Stark. All this time I was worried about who here might expose us, but danger was lurking the last place I expected. Imagine, betrayed by my own sister.”

“Cersei forced it out of her, just as she forced her hand to write that letter, and you know it. Your sister Sansa is innocent, a prisoner, but innocent.”

“I know… but now that the enemy knows of it…”

“What will they do next?” Theon completes Robb’s thought.

“They can hardly do much if the Army in the North is not shattered by the news, which we managed to prevent from happening. That was the main intent of the letter. Do you think the other armies will care?”

“No. And what can Sansa tell? She saw us kissing as boys? I am sure that can be said of many men. We reclaimed the letter you sent me, and there is no more evidence to prove that it continues.”

“We can hope that the enemy will do nothing, and this will pass away as most rumours do. But,” Robb rubbed his nose. “I feel awful having to lie about us.”

“We must save face, eh? We will lie today and lie again tomorrow, until we find someone who can accept the truth.”

Robb nods, and they stand in silence, listening to each other’s breathing in the pitch blackness. “Did you eat?” he asks, in concern, mostly to snuff out the noiselessness. 

“Not hungry.”

“You must eat. I do not know the next meal when you can eat your fill.”

“Maybe I am better off starving to death.” Theon looks through the doorway and across the Courtyard at a lone tower reach the sky. A vulture sits on the top of its capstone, a dark shadow in the starlight. No light burns within the tower as in any other window of the Keep. This was to be his prison for the next fourteen days. 

“Do not say that, please, it hurts enough that I had to make that command, but to know that you resent me breaks my heart. I apologise -”

Theon cut him off with an angry kiss. “Never say that word again, you apologise too much for doing the right thing. I do NOT resent you!” he shouts. 

“Shhhh” hisses Robb. “We cannot be heard.”

Theon calms down and tucks his head in the crook of Robb’s neck. “Aye. There are hammers beating molten iron in my skull.”

“It took all this to make a poet of you.”

“A bloody messed up poet.”

“Are they all not?”

Theon sighs. “Is every human not?”

“The events of today tell me so,” replies Robb.

“But all is not bleak. The events of today tell me that I must thank you. Thank you for inspiring me to take responsibility of my life.”

“And thank you for inspiring me to hold true to myself. I could not have handled today with any finesse if it was not for your strength.”

“Well my punishment is just, so I will grin and bear it. The time alone will give me long silent hours to reflect on my newfound sense of self. You are right, I would have gotten drunk with praise for winning the battle, or fighting in every corner with men who look funny at me. Isolation will do me good. But, I am worried about you. Who will protect your bumbling ass, put a smile on your face, and most importantly, keep your bed warm at night?”

Robb laughs. “I will manage. I will think of your cocky grin and shifty eyes and the beautiful sweep of fluffy hair -”

“My hair is ugly,” grumbles Theon with a pout. 

“You are beautiful.”

“Your eyes have holes in them,” says Theon, blushing furiously. Then he bursts into giggles. “You think I am beautiful?”

“Aye.” Robb kisses him on the nose. “See, I can make you laugh and blush too. I will survive. And, no, my bed will be cold and silent as your cell till your return.”

“Well, my cell will not be that cold and silent. I have perfected the art of self-satisfaction.”

Robb rolls his eyes. “Seems like this will not be a punishment after all.”

“Not seeing your face will be punishment enough.”

“Take a good look then.”

“It is too dark.” Theon lifts a hand to Robb's face, and sensitive fingers trace every ridge and hollow and crease and bristle. “I will remember you.”

“How can I ever forget you?”

“Hmm…” Theon rests his forehead against Robb's. “I have a plan.”

“I do not like the sound of that.”

“Can we exchange letters?” 

“I did not peg you for a letter writer. You do realise that contact of any sort is against regulation in solitary confinement, right? Besides, it was a letter that caught us in the first place.” Robb frowns. “It is simply too risky.”

Theon nods. “I know of a soldier who we can trust with letters. You are a better judge of what is right and wrong, so I will await your first letter.”

“Who is this soldier?”

“Dorrick, Son of Dor. He is an imp of a fellow, and gets bullied relentlessly by the other men. It will do him good to have an important duty to get some self-esteem and keep his tormentors in awe. Will you appoint him the guard of the tower?” Theon looks at him hopefully. “I promise I will not ask for anything more.”

Robb searches in Theon’s eyes for an ulterior motive, and finds none. “That kid who was my squire? I will look to it. But I am still cannot condone this plan of exchanging letters.”

Theon looks away. “So you can ignore me for two weeks and not feel empty inside?”

“I will.” Theon’s head whips back at the crack in Robb’s voice. “But I cannot go against rules.”

Theon draws him closer, though by now there is no more space to give between them. “There is something you are not telling me,” he says quietly in Robb’s ear.

“What? No, I have nothing to hide.” Robb’s voice hitches higher.

“You cannot lie to me. If you do, I will gladly believe you do not exist for the time I am away.”

“I cannot bear to be out of your thoughts.” Robb sighs. “Promise you will not hate me?”

“Never.”

Robb’s voice is so low Theon’s ears strain to hear. “I might have to send you away.”

Theon’s voice chokes in his throat. “I feared it might come to this. Why?”

“There are forces that want us destroyed, and you are an easy target. The more we stay together, the more evidence we give out enemies. Look at us now…”

“Yes, I realise that. But do you want me gone? Answer truthfully.”

Robb hangs his head. 

Theon gasps. “You mean…?”

“I think a break from you would be good to me too. You have consumed every waking and sleeping thought of mine. I do not know what my eyes see if they do not see you, I do not know who to turn to if not you, my words are yours. A King does not have the luxury of neglecting his duties because of matters of the heart.” He takes a deep breath. “But send you away for ever? How can I? How can I?” He breaks down into tears, his arms hang limp and his knees buckle.

Theon holds him upright. “Do not cry, Robb, do not cry.” He kissed away his tears in the dark. “I am here, now.”

Robb calms down after a few miserable moments. “Why is it so impossible for us to stay together, Theon?”

Theon shrugs. “At least we were fortunate enough to share some time together. Nine years as the best friends, two weeks as lovers, and eternity as brothers at arms for all I care. The length of time does not matter if well spent. Are we not still standing? We are safe here in the Keep of Capes. Let us discuss what happens afterwards once I have served my sentence.”

Robb runs a hand along Theon’s hairline. “There was a time you would have killed everyone to keep us safe.”

“And there was a time you would have escaped into one of your fantasy worlds for us to be together.”

“But we are here and now, and come what may, we will see the best course forward, together or apart. We will always be a part of each other.”

“Can I admit something?” Theon’s voice is tremulous, a thin line in the grey gloom. 

“I have a confession too,” whispers Robb, a line parallel to the former.

“I am scared,” both of them say together. They stay in silence for so long neither knew the time. 

“I better head to the tower,” says Theon at last, brushing his lips against Robb’s. 

Robb nods. “I am expected at the Great Hall for dinner.”

Neither lets go.

“Those cannot be our last words for two weeks,” says Robb.

“They will not be. I never believed in any gods, old or new. But I will pray to you tonight, pray for us.”

“So will I, and damn me to hell if any force says otherwise.”

“I have words that fit a better parting.” Theon smiles. “I love you,” he says simply.

“You are never afraid to say that,” says Robb, a faraway look in his eyes. “I fear that more people I love will die.”

“It is a fool who stops loving for the fear of losing it. Your father’s passing will always carve a scar in your heart, but your heart can love again.”

“Then I say I love you too.” Robb kisses Theon in silent confirmation, and releases him.

Theon steps back. “Gosh, now you are making me cry.” He sticks his tongue out, scrunches his nose and eyes and wiggles his ears.

Robb laughs. “Never stop being you and loving me, Theon.”

“Robb.” That is all Theon has to say. 

A harsh bugle call echoes through the building, announcing the close of day. The stones catch the sound and increases it tenfold, echoes and vibrations crashing to drown the two men in the narrow space in its foundations. 

Theon turns and heads towards the doorway to the Courtyard. Robb watches him go, the pain of parting a bittersweet syrup in his veins, and the warm look on his face chills when he sees Theon freeze. Theon darts back, clamps a hand down on Robb’s mouth and pushes him into a corner. He crouches down next to him, his other arm held protectively before him, senses alert. 

Robb is about to ask what was going on, when he hears voices. They seem to be coming from just outside the doorway, in the courtyard. Their voices are low and sneering, unpleasant words crawl from slithery tongues. He hears Theon’s name, and slurs that made his ears burn and blood boil. He turns to Theon, and sees a closed face of resolved determination.

“They are lying in wait for me,” says Theon in Robb’s ear. “And I will go meet them.”

“They will kill you,” whispers Robb harshly.

“And they will not have their fun, for I do not plan on dying any time soon.”

“Can we not wait until they go away?”

“And wait like sinking rats for them to catch if they look in here? Imagine what would happen if you are found with me too.”

“I will come with you.”

“And we will not be better off. We might as well announce our engagement at dinner.”

Theon grasps Robb’s face. “Remember what I said? This is what I know I was getting into when I fell in love with you. And I will not back away now. Stay hidden in the shadows, I will make short work of this.”

Robb takes the dagger from his belt and tucks it into Theon’s jacket. “These men fight dirty.”

“I know you spirit will guide my hand,” says Theon.

“Every second.”

Theon stands, and Robb watches in admiration of the angular lethal silhouette he cut in the blackening gloom. He strides out. 

Theon feels his heart knock against his ribs painfully inside him, and his mouth is drier than usual. But he holds in his mind the proud look in Robb’s eyes a moment ago, and that puts steel in his nerves. It is all the appreciation and motivation he needs to fight and live another day, another night. He puts on his usual cocky smile and steps into the starlight. A group of four men turn to him faster than dogs on piece of meat.

“Evening, friends. It is nice to find fans where ever I go.” 

Robb’s ears pick up the slight tremor in his voice, and it was then he realised how much Theon was shaken by the day's events, and changed, that he had to perform his earlier self in front of others.

“Ha, Theon!” says the largest, his scraggly beard failing to cover his thin lipped toothless leer. “Done sucking the King’s cock?”

“And what if I have? He is a bigger man than a hundred of you.”

“Your mouth was always too big for your face, Theon, and you have finally found a good use for it.”

“Pity the only thing you use your mouth is to catch flies.”

“Drop your sword.”

“I would, but that is not very nice for polite company, is it?”

“Shut your mouth, and fight. Real men fight with their fists.”

Theon’s sword clatters to the ground. “If you insist. A real man fights alone, not with three cronies to cower behind.”

Robb hears the first blow land on Theon, and he closes his eyes. The scrape of boot nails on stones assaults his ears. The crunching of knuckles against bone, the harrowing cries of pain, thuds as bodies hurl at walls. He hears Theon’s taunts, the other men’s ragged breath, and a secret smile blooms in his chest. His warrior was giving those dogs a beating they will never forget. Finally he hears three pairs of feet scamper away like rats into the night, and he opens his eyes to see Theon, a small crouching figure face off against the larger man, who hunkers over him like the tower behind him. The man suddenly kicks dirt in Theon’s eyes. Theon steps back with a hiss, and the man swings a meat fist at Theon’s arm, and twists it behind his back. A loud crack splinters in Robb’s listening ears as the arm dangles at an unnatural angle. 

“You fight dirty, eh?” snarled Theon. “So can I. Did you forget I can wield a sword in both arms?” He draws the dagger from his jacket sleeve, and launches himself off the ground. He flashes through the air like an eagle, swiping at the giant, lands behind him, and for his final touch, cuts at his belt with flair. The man’s clothes all fall to the ground, and he shivers naked in the cold night air.

“You do not seem much of a man for your size,” says Theon. “Now crawl back to your hole, you filthy sewer rat, or I will rectify your manhood.”

The giant takes off running, a lumbering pale blob. 

The quiet washes back to the empty courtyard, as if nothing evil ever happens there.

Robb runs out and catches Theon in his arms as he collapses. Theon curls into a tiny ball, trembling in every limb, the life sucked out of him once the danger has passed. He knows he is safe in Robb’s embrace, and he lets go of the fierce anger he held in himself against all humans, as here was someone he only felt and gave love. 

“Your arm!” Robb gasps. “Quick, I need to take you to the sanatorium.” He picks up Theon, one arm under the knees and the other on his back, and moves fast as he can through the back corridor.

Theon raises a bloody hand to Robb’s cheek, still clutching the dagger. “Do not let me die, Your Grace.”

“Hush, that is the pain talking.”

Theon lies limp in his arms. “The look in their eyes… such hatred. Their fists driven with purpose, their minds convinced against me. These were men I shared a table with, cracked a joke with, and held a sword in battle with. The Keep is no longer safe for us. What did I do to deserve their antipathy? If I have done something wrong, if I am something wrong, what can I do to take responsibility of my flaws, how am I to fix this?” He sounds weak, his resolve crumbling. 

Robb grunts as Theon’s weight deadens in his hold. “There is nothing wrong in you, you hear me? You are perfect as it is, every part of you. Change nothing. Those who know you with no fear or ignorance in their heart love you. If there is something, it is with men who say otherwise, and they will have their comeuppance some way or another. There is nothing we can do but hold on to who we are with people by our side, and live, and fight when necessary.” He stops for a moment to catch his breath, in an alcove where a soft wind flutters white curtains. “You are an incredibly brave and good person. Do not let these wounds define you.”

Theon smiles with red tainted lips, and passes out. 

Robb sets his jaw and starts to run again, rushing into the sanatorium shouting help. Ever vigilant, Talisa gets up from her chair, and looks across alerted. 

“You two again –” she begins, and stops when she sees the look on Robb’s face, and Theon’s broken frame in his arms, and hurries over. She gets Robb to lay Theon on an empty bed and cuts Theon’s clothes off him, gasping when she sees the violent collage of violet bruises and cuts and scrapes laced with blood.

“I cannot be seen here,” whispers Robb hurriedly, “I cannot lose him,” he adds, voice laden with hurt.

Talisa nods firmly. “I will do my best.”

Robb pries away the dagger from Theon’s stiff fingers, and hurries out before his tears could fall.

Talisa shifts her alert gaze down to Theon, the slight swaying of the hair on his upper lip with each wheezing breath the only sign of life in his pale wan still body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

Robb paces outside in the hallway, sometimes leaning against the doorway, sometimes staring out the window. He finally collapses on a cold granite bench and stares unseeingly at a sconce burning across from him. He had held back tears before Theon to be strong for him when he was weak, but now that he was alone, they will not flow. He loses himself in the fire. He feels helpless once again, watching his lover fight for him. He knew that they excel at different arenas off battle, but the sheer tangible bravery of hand-to-hand combat does nothing to quench his inadequacy. A single tear carves a channel down his cheek. Theon’s broken spirit is something he has never encountered; he had always been the stronger of the two. It was unfair that he lies torn and hurt while he is unblemished. He lays the dagger against his wrist in a trembling moment where all self-control is lost like the outer edge of a dancing flame. 

“Your Grace?”

Robb looks up, startled, and the cruel moment is broken.

It is Dorrick, his soft features frozen in fear. 

Robb sighs in relief and beckons him closer. On a whim he hands him the dagger. “Take this, a gift from your King.”

“I cannot accept this, Your Grace.”

“It is impolite to say thank you upon receiving a token of appreciation.”

“Thank you,” stutters Dorrick.

Robb grips his shoulder. “This dagger has seen some dark times. Use it well. I cannot say from which dangers you have to protect yourself from, but be safe.”

Dorrick nods slowly, overwhelmed. “I will guard it with my life.”

“A dagger usually servers that purpose, it guards your life.”

Dorrick smiles shyly. “How is Lord Theon?” he asks after a pause, his expression more worried than usual. 

“Recovering,” says Robb in a taut voice. “He got into a nasty fight. I hope you do not have to face the same.” He leans closer. “Do you want to be a guardsman?”

Dorrick nods eagerly.

“Good. You will be put to guard the Tower.”

“I heard Lord Theon would be locked up there?”

“Yes.”

“I think that is unfair.”

“So do I, but there are many unfair things in the world, and it is up to good men like us to put it right.”

Staring at the dagger shining in the firelight, Dorrick falls into deep thought. Robb dismisses him, and he runs off to report to the Warden of the Prisoners. 

The door to the Sanatorium opens, and Talisa worried face slips out. “Your Grace?”

Robb stands up at once and approaches fretfully. “Any news?”

“He is stable, but…” Talisa eyes show her concern. “He still has not woken up. I am reluctant to set his arm with him asleep. Will you try and rouse him?”

Robb dithers, wondering if he had already damned their chances of keeping their love a secret. He finally decides that if Theon needs him, he will wade through the fires of judgement for him, and he nods and follows Talisa in. 

He stops at the foot of Theon’s bed. His heart aches with pain at the pain he cannot take away from the weakened pale body in it. His face grows fonder as he sees the smile still etched on Theon face. Theon is covered in bandages, and reminds Robb of a body claimed by death never to breathe or move again.

“Your love for him takes root where fire kindles ice to water,” observes Talisa.

“A line from Isurhea Varyana,” says Robb. “So you have heard the rumours too?”

“I do not need rumours, I knew from the first day you came looking for him.”

Robb sighs. “Love is a cruel beast.”

“And powerful too. It can perform wonders beyond what lesser men can comprehend.”

“You believe that love is magical?” asks Robb hesitantly.

“No. but something stronger than what witches and warlocks practice. A human’s strength lies in their spirit and will to live, and nothing influences it more than love.”

Robb sits down on the bed next the Theon. He gently brushes his hair back, but that stubborn curl on the middle of his forehead keeps popping back defiantly. He strokes his cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I do not know if you can hear me,” he whispers in his ear. “But I need you to wake up.” He kisses a red bruise glowering on the bridge of his nose, the blue weal on his jaw, the scrape along his neck, the countless scratches on his chest, and he looks despair at the discolouration down his side, where feet must have kicked. “There are too many,” he sighs, and kisses Theon on his cold mouth and leans back, blinking tears. 

“You have my blood on your lips,” came a raspy whisper as Theon open his eyes.

Robb smiles and wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. “Now we truly are blood brothers.” He tenderly puts his arms around Theon, careful not to brush against his wounds, and lays his cheek against his. 

“We are more than blood brothers.” Theon’s voice grows stronger. 

“We are too souls forever interconnected, we have left too strong a mark in each other’s spirits. I shout to the wind and you will hear no matter how far you are, you shoot an arrow to the stars and I will see it shooting across the sky, I grip the hilt of a sword and I will feel your hand in mine. All you got to do is dream, my love, and I will be there before you.”

“I fear no parting from you now.”

“Nor do I. Now, we need to get your arm set, and this is going to hurt. Hold my hand.”

Theon nods as Talisa approaches cautiously. Robb grips the forearm of Theon’s good hand as Talisa puts a wooden ball under his dislocated shoulder. With a quick yank and twist, she guides it back into its socket. Theon grunts in pain, his fingernails leaving creases on Robb’s arm. He collapses back onto the bed sweat streaming from his face.

“He is on the mend.” Talisa wipes his forehead with a cool wet cloth. “Would you like to eat something?”

Theon nods, and Talisa hands Robb a bowl of soup and a spoon. She retires to the back of the ward as Robb carefully feeds Theon in comfortable silence. 

“Do you remember the four men who attacked you?” asks Robb softly.

Theon nods. “I drank with them on the wedding night.”

“Do you want them be thrown in the dungeons?”

“Them, and how many else? This is not a problem where we rap on a few heads and call it solved. It is something you and I will face every day from now onwards. There is no use sentencing those four. I will not name them. If they come forward, deal with them justly.”

Robb agrees sorrowfully, and resumes ladling out soup. Theon is finally full, and Robb puts the bowl away.

“You have missed your dinner,” says Theon.

“Not if I hurry. A King has to make an entrance. Get better soon, and stay strong. I do not know if I will see you before you go to your cell.”

Theon has the choice of happiness or sadness, and he chooses to grin. “Things have definitely become more eventful since we became lovers.”

“And there is the sense of humour I love coming back. Now I must go.”

“And there is the sense of duty I love. Goodbye.”

They share a quick kiss and Robb hurries off, and Theon falls into an easy sleep as his body heals.

\------

Chairs scrape back as dinner ends, and heads turn in surprise as they see Robb hurry in. Eyes narrow, taking in his dishevelled bloodied appearance and hushed voices speculate his delay. Robb holds his head high, greets everyone with a quick courteous nod, and begins eating calmly. The rest sit down, and waits patiently until the King dismisses them. Robb lets them know who is in charge, and eats at his usual pace. Once done, he bids everyone a good night and a better tomorrow, and sweeps out of the room. The table dissolves to idle indignant chatter, but everyone to the last man cannot but feel impressed and intimidated. 

\-----

Theon wakes up in cold sweat, gasping for air. His hands scrabble at the sheets, as he reaches out helplessly. “Shhh…” a soothing voice calms him and gentle hands recline him on a soft pillow. A candle is lit by the bedside, and Talisa’s face swims into Theon’s frantic view.

“It is only a bad dream, My Lord.” Talisa wipes his forehead with the same cooling cloth. 

“I saw… Robb turn away in hurt and anger… by my own hand… Winterfell plundered and burning… I will betray him.”

“It is only a dream, and you have a slight fever. It will pass, and you will be yourself again.”

Theon squeezes his eyes shut. “Talisa, make me a promise.”

“Yes?”

“When I am no longer here, or I die, will you take good care of Robb?”

“Of course I will, but it is hardly my place to –”

“Not protect him, he has enough guards for that. Take good care of his mind. He is an intelligent man fond of books and conversation as you do too. That is something I cannot give him.”

“I am honoured in your trust.”

“Do not be. I finally realised how petty it was of me to be intimidated by you.”

“You know that he loves you very much, do you not? Does he not show you with every look and word and touch?”

“Yes.”

“And do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if your love lasts, you will not betray him.”

Theon turns his head away on his pillow. “That is what I fear. Nothing lasts with me, and I grow fickle the more I am away from him.”

“Then hold true to your memory of him. Now sleep. There are two more hours till dawn, and then Dorrick will come to take you to the Tower.”

Theon slips into fitful sleep haunted by the dark monsters of his soul. 

Later, he walks like a dreamless ghost along the Keep battlements into the tall stone column, and the door closes to swallow him whole. 

\------

A week trips by, bringing and taking with it the highs and lows of routine life. 

Theon grows mendicant. He reminisces on the past, ponders on the present and wonders of the future. His mind becomes clearer with each passing day and night. His life had felt like a battle with many fronts, a war with many factions and he did not know which side to take. He carried hurt and anger and rejection from his father, he felt the differentiation and alienation and rejection of his time at Winterfell, and he relived the comradery and validation and rejection he received with the army. Then his thoughts distilled into a shape and form he treasured: Robb. He could think for the first time of leaving him without his heart shattering. And in the selfless realisation, he resided calmly in his lonely tower hour upon hour. His icy heart melted, and a bright torch burned there for the time he will leave and the change that comes with it.

For Robb, it was a time of sudden and drastic change in perspective. He had always seen faces of respect turn towards him on bent knees. He had gotten used it, accepted it as his reality, and expected it constantly. But it changed. It began at an address to the soldiers when it was discovered that two men had deserted. The army gathered in the courtyard, and Robb delivered one of his trademark speeches, and finished with what he hoped would be a rousing cry: “We will fight like men!” There were a smattering of cheers, sure, but a laugh ran out first, before it could be drowned out by the shouts of the rest. More laughs joined, and when Robb raised a hand for silence, he did not receive it. All he could do was to walk away in humiliation, and leave it to his feared commanders to deal with the rabble rouses. 

He was tactful after this incident. Punishing the insubordinate men would paint him weaker and vengeful in the eyes of the army. So he returned each blow with a smile. He was always polite, and the ruder they became, the more courteous his response. An underhand compliment became sincere in his thanks. He had more time to spend with his army, from the gallant knights to even the overworked stable boys, and he applied himself tirelessly to win them over. It was not an easy path. He found obstacles within his War Council, and he wore his tongue dry in endless cyclic debates of no consequence. But the tide turns. Surly men smile, scowling ones turn indifferent. Mocking looks turn to ones of awe, and pointing fingers rise in salutes. Robb is careful to not become a pushover in his tenure of kindness, he holds his head high and back straight, and if anyone challenges him, he will see to that he is in put in his place. He fought fire with ice and ice with fire, and emerged the victor.

One morning, Robb stares at his reflection in his room, that had been empty but for him for seven long days. Subtle changes mark his face. He looks wiser, more wrinkles around the eyes, the mouth firmer and his jaw sterner. His eyes have that keen sense of seeing right through a person. It is not an unpleasant change; the boyish charm has been replaced with a noble countenance that is all the more pleasing. His hair has grown down to his ears over the war, and he instructs his barber to cut it in a new style.

Lady Stark’s eyes light up when she sees him. “You look more like your father every day, son, but different. I cannot put my finger on it.”

“Time will tell,” he replies, and heads to that day’s War Council. 

Word had reached them of a second Army from the South heading towards the pass, smaller this time, and they prepare for a second batter. In the middle of the proceedings, the doors to the Great Hall crash open, and four men walk in, two soldiers and two knights. One soldier is of unusually large size, and Robb immediately recognises his voice as Theon’s attacker as he confesses their role in that night’s ambush. He pleads for mercy based on the fact they felt guilty enough to come forth, and that they were humbled by Robb’s treatment of all the rumours they spread. Robb knows that it was half an act, but he still halts Sir Battlehelm’s and Lord Umber’s shouts to have them thrown to the coyotes. 

Robb gazes down at the four men kneeling before him, and they squirm uneasily. “I have heard your plea, and have nothing but contempt. You set upon an innocent man with nothing but hatred in your heart. In some Council’s such behaviour will be celebrated as manly bravado, but not in mine. You are expelled from the army. You will be stripped from your rank, and you will never again seek a position in my service. Your expulsion will brand you as unfit for work throughout the land, and your existence will be meagre.” He smiles grimly. “And if I ever hear of you causing any trouble of this nature, on your head be it. I will not be merciful.”

That evening, Robb calls for Dorrick, and hands him a letter. He had decided that secret communication with the man he loves was worth the risk. In it, he tells Theon of what happened, and how the rest of the army now hated the four men who attacked him. Comparatively, the attitude towards Theon has changed, and his fellow soldiers now look forward to his return. Theon replies within the hour, expressing his delight on hearing from him. He hopes the men have learnt their lesson, and if not, he will be cackling at their graves. He also notes that he sees the lines of clothes put out to dry, and Lord Battlehelm’s undergarments must have been mistakenly washed in beetroot water, as they were an unfortunate shade of bright pink. 

The battle next day is an easy win. Robb, now familiarised with the terrain, plans his battle impeccably. His men are more united, more disciplined, and more loyal, observes Robb. Grey Wind is back, fiercer than ever. Casualties are less, and the pass is secure than before. The War Council talks of proceeding further South, leaving the Knights of Kilts to hold the Keep in their stead. 

As Robb moves through the recovering men of the army, he remembers Talisa’s words. “You send sick men to their deaths.” Perhaps she was not talking of sickness of the body, but of the mind. The army is happier now, with new vigour and drive. Every soldier he talks to solemnly assure him that they sign their lot with him, and know of the role they play and the price they pay. A load is lifted off his conscience, as he realises that while a King could lead an army through fear, and an army could lead a King through a coup, true victory lay in mutual trust. 

He writes to Theon of his observations, and he receives a heartfelt message on how Theon feels that Robb, too had undergone an epiphany of self-discovery, and he hopes that it put to rest some of his worries. He talks of missing the battle and how restless he grows trapped within four walls. The two of them continue to correspond for the remaining week, Dorrick a stealthy and trustworthy messenger. Robb writes a poem or two, and sent what he hopes Theon would find funny:

Nightly, My Mistress and I lay in sin in bed,  
Dreading the turning of the screw of time.  
Sublime, it will neither loosen nor tighten,  
Frozen as smiles on the lips of My Mistress.

Temptress, you turned to me,  
“Dearest,” you teased at me,  
“Best you name no term for me.”  
Why?  
Sigh.  
For you see, My Mistress was a he.

Robb can hear Theon’s laughter in the words he writes back to him: There better not be a mistress while I am away [he writes] and certainly not one who calls you ‘dearest’, bleurgh. What may we call each other? I sometimes feel there is no term yet for who we are. I long for the night I will return to your bed, you tease, and you know exactly what to write to get me all hot and bothered about what I am missing. 

Theon attempts a poem in return, and Robb spends a whole hour laughing at its endearing earnestness and honesty:

Who met a dashing prince on the run?  
It was the rotten darkened broken one,  
Me and you, feeling blue, so afraid  
Better heart, reeling apart, so I said  
Fuck it; let’s unite the moon and the sun.

He responds with a heartfelt message: I love you through all colours and heavenly bodies and distances. If you feel rotten and dark and broken, know that an apple always has a better half too. Goodness can be found, if you know where to look for it. We will meander, together or apart.

They write of what they see and did, and Theon kept an endless supply of interesting and humorous things he sees from his bird’s eye view high above. On the day before the last, Robb receives a letter more agitated in its tone than usual. A correspondence soon follows: 

R,  
I know that my time left here is brief, but I must see you, have you in here with me to brighten these dull walls. I have missed you for far too long. Dorrick will be able to sneak you in, and keep watch while we are together.  
Love,  
T.

My dearest,  
My mind was thrown to turmoil at your last message. I have hungered for your touch. But I have learnt these past days that patience has its value, and honour its reward. As much as it pains me to say this, I cannot sneak into your cell like a thief enslaved to his passions. I am a weak human, but I hope my mind would be stronger, and I hope yours would be strong as well. These letters must suffice, we have too much at stake already. Be patient, my love, and wait another day.  
Your Grace. 

R,  
I am sorry. That former letter was written in a moment of weakness. I found myself thinking of whether I drag you to do something that you would rather not, or because your principles are against it, but you still do it, because I can be quite a strong charmer if I do say so myself. I apologise for all the times my reckless love for excitement strayed you from your better sense. Thank you for being strong enough to refuse me, and I hope will be better for it.  
Love,  
T. 

My Dearest,  
It warms my heart to know that my love does not feel upset. We will be united once more soon. Keep yourself for one more night.  
Here is something that I hope would make you smile. Who knew Sir Battlehelm could draw? He drew Grey Wind, and I send the sketch to you. True, I would not have recognised the mass of scribbles if he did not add a title underneath it, but still, a valiant attempt.  
Your Grace.

R,  
If the drawing was not named, I would think it a self-portrait of the good knight himself.  
I am not upset, but I will be if all my propositions to you will be rejected, then I fear I might burn the next letter I write to you.  
Love,  
T.

\------

It was a grey dawn when Theon stepped out of the tower, with a chill in the air that beckoned snow. With a smile at the shivering Dorrick buried in cloak too big for him, Theon heads down to a familiar door. He knocks lightly. The door pulls open to reveal Robb. Robb’s smile is interrupted by an elephantine yawn, and his sleep mussed hairs stands on end, but to Theon, he looked more beautiful than ever. Theon’s face is pinched red and raw by the cold morning gusts of wind, but to Robb, he looked more beautiful than ever. Robb pulls him into their bedchamber, and embraces him long and hard. Robb kisses him gently, and a look of joy blossoms on his face like the rising sun. Theon laughs, the tinkle of glimmering drops falling off a stalactite.

“You have changed,” says Theon, tilting his head. “I like it.”

“And so have you,” says Robb, rubbing his nose against Theon’s. Theon had grown slightly gaunt, the line of his features more pronounced, and it gave him a more steadfast and mature look. The ever-present glint in his eye and smirk in his mouth was still there, but it was now more in appreciation of the world than a state of careless and wild abandon. 

“I love you,” whispers Theon. “It feels so good to say it to you in person.” 

Robb does not hesitate. “I love you too, I hope you have not forgotten that.”

“I may need to be reminded.” Theon catches Robb’s eyes and flicks his gaze over to the bed. He runs his hands down Robb’s sides and cups hiss ass to tug him closer. 

Robb chuckles. “You only have one thing on your mind, do you not?” he says with a grin. 

Theon hums in his ear. 

“We do not have much time,” warns Robb.

“I wait two weeks in a vow of celibacy, and all you can say is we do not have much time?” Theon hitches his legs up around Robb’s hips as he is lowered into bed. 

“Did you forget that I am an honourable man, now?”

Theon flips Robb over and sits astride his chest. “Well, Your Honour, let us see if I can still make you scream. You know what makes you finish the fastest.”

“You would not dare.”

“Watch me.”

\------

They spend the rest of the day as they usually would. 

Robb is at the Council, making preparations to set the army marching again tomorrow. They had finally decided that their time at the Keep of Capes was over, and Sir Battlehelm was crying manly tears at the news of their departure. The soldiers and knights too were bidding farewell, with the sadness of losing friendships made and brotherhoods forged on the battlefield. 

Theon, the swagger back in his gait, pretty much spends his day walking around the Keep and greeting everyone he meets with a radiant smile. There are still a few black looks, and a Lord had the audacity to mime a sword across his throat from behind the safety of his guards, but Theon let all the ill will spill and wash off his back and kept his sunny optimism. He did have a feeling of impending disconnection with the whole situation, as a lot can change in two weeks. 

While the rest pour over maps to chart the best routes Southwards, Robb calls Theon aside. 

“What wise words of wisdom have you to shed on my undeserving ears, Your Grace?” asks Theon. Robb’s pensive silence sobers Theon. “Is anything the matter?”

“I have thought of the battles we have had so far, and come to the conclusion that wars are not won with the power of thousands on the battlefield, but with treaties and negotiations and oaths in the courts of rich and powerful men. I have decided to send my mother to Lord Renly, and she will see what must be promised to secure his alliance.”

“I see what you are hinting at,” says Theon. “You will have my answer tonight.”

But as pleasant as the day is, a sense of unwelcome expectation hangs over both men. 

Knowledge that Theon’s departure is an inevitable occurrence in a few short hours is a sobering thought for Robb. It first careened him to blind panic. He sometimes woke up in cold sweat in the middle of the night during the past two weeks, sweat frosting his body. Then he would lay back down and worry of the day Theon would be gone forever. Away in his tower, Theon would turn over in his sleep and his cheek would hit cold stone instead of Robb’s warm back and his eyes would shoot open in an empty room. He would close his eyes and try to calm frantic feelings of the coming times when he would never see Robb again. But as days passed, both men came into terms that the unavoidable cannot be avoided. But coming to terms with it is not the same as moving on.

\------

Later, as the evening shadows grow heavy, the Council is dismissed after sending Jamie Lannister’s cousin to King’s Landing, bearing a letter to Queen Regent Cersei and her son with their terms for peace. After everyone files out, Robb stands looking out over the courtyard where the army camps, his thoughtful expression broken by a guarded smile as he sees Theon approach.

“A word, Your Grace?” Theon steps besides him and follows Robb’s gaze.

Robb nods. 

“The Lannisters are going to reject your terms, you know?” continues Theon. 

“Of course they will.”

“It is good that you have decided not to fight them on the fields, but we will not beat them until you take King’s Landing. We cannot take King’s Landing without ships. My father has ships and men who know how to sail them.” 

“Men who fought my father.”

“Men who fought King Robert to free themselves from the yolk of the South, just like you are doing now.” Theon pauses and turns to look at Robb. “I am his only living son. He will listen to me. I know he will. I am not a Stark I know that, but your father raised me to be an honourable man. We worry often of our future, but we can avenge him together.”

“I hear you,” says Robb. “Will you do as you say?”

“Yes.”

“Is this what you want to do?”

“Two birds killed with one stone.”

“Then you may leave at first light tomorrow.”

“No, I leave tonight. I ride well in the dark.”

Both men pause as they realise what Theon just said, and try to stifle their laughter. Eyes still watch them, now more vigilant that they are together again. The two of them know they are on borrowed time until someone or other makes more trouble for them. They move apart at once. 

“I will go ready my horse,” says Theon. Robb nods, and Theon’s footsteps clatter away.

\------

Theon is securing the straps of his midnight black stallion when he hears footsteps behind him. He looks over the horse’s back and sees Lady Stark. He immediately comes out of the stall and bows. “My Lady.”

“Good evening, Theon.”

“What brings My Lady down here? Do you need some help with a horse?”

“I am riding out tomorrow towards Lord Renly Baratheon’s camp. I came to see on the horses for my party.”

“Yes, Robb told me of it.”

“And how is Robb doing?”

Theon kicked one boot with the toe of the other. That was a loaded question. “He is doing as well as he can. These are trying times.”

Lady Stark suddenly relaxes her stiff shoulders and opens her arms. “Give me a hug, Theon. I cannot let any bad blood stand between myself and my son’s lover.”

Theon is surprised but moves forward awkwardly, and she embraces him. They step back.

“I must apologise. I have been cold towards you for long. In fact, from the very day you came. If I have a fault, it is being fiercely protective of my own children. I saw the attention you gave Robb, and I saw him warm to you, and I had doubts.”

“They are well founded, My Lady, I am a bad lot. I have changed for the better, but I am still an unworthy companion for your son.”

“He evidently thinks better of you than you do yourself. Maybe my impression of you can mend too.” She holds out her hand. “Truce?”

Theon shakes it gently. “Gladly.” He smiles shyly. “I never knew my mother.”

“And I promise to be a better mother to both of you from now on.”

“Thank you.” Theon scratches his collar uncomfortably. “And I promise to be a better adoptive son and son in law approximate?”

Lady stark laughs. “We will see about that. If you would rather start out tomorrow, you can join my retinue for part of the journey.”

Theon understands that she offers him protection in numbers. “Thank you, My Lady, but I travel alone.”

“Suit yourself.” She moves to the next stall where her trusty mare is housed. “Theon, another matter I must voice.”

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Break my son’s heart, and you will know of no greater force than a mother’s wrath.” She serenely pats the mare’s neck, but in her eyes roars the hardy fire he has seen on Robb’s face many a time. He knew better than to cross her.

“Yes, My Lady – no, I mean, no, My Lady…”

“Calm down, child.” She pats him on the shoulder. “The others are waiting to say goodbye at the drawbridge. Walk with me.”

Holding on to his horse’s reins in one hand, Theon follows her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you feel!


	12. Chapter 12

The group that gathers at the drawbridge is not large. Lord Umber and Sir Battlehelm stand side by side, and before them is Robb. He does not meet Theon’s eyes and instead finds morbid interest among the gravel beneath his feet. Theon feels a pang in his heart, but there is hardly anything he can do now.

“Goodbye, Theon Greyjoy,” says Lady Stark, nodding and smiling kindly at him. She hands him a lace handkerchief. “A Lady’s blessing holds a soldier safe. My sigil will open many doors for you, but use it wisely. I wish you a safe journey. May the gods be with you.”

“May the gods be with you,” repeat Lord Umber and Sir Battlehelm. Robb, whose voice is the only Theon wants to hear, stays silent. 

Sir Battlehelm grips him by the shoulders. “Alright, laddie, it was a damn good time having you in my Keep. You will be remembered, and a tapestry will hang in the great Hall of your and King Robb’s valour.” He sniffs.

“The pleasure was all mine, Sir,” says Theon, who is not dry eyed himself.

“I am honoured.” He suddenly grins. “What happened to that kilt you begged from me all those days ago?”

Theon blushes and shrugs. “No idea. Probably someone stole it to remember me by.”

The corner of Robb’s mouth twitches.

“As long as it is in good hands.” Sir Battlehelm claps him on the shoulder. “Now away with you, before we all cry like unfed babies.”

“He is not getting away that easy,” says Lord Umber throwing an arm over Theon’s shoulder and shaking him. “You are a fool to ride alone in these times when a man hides a knife in the glove that shakes your hand. Travel safe. No Inn or pub is safe as a camp, your sword is your friend on the road and let your sense be your guide, fool though you are.” He pretends to box him on the ear. “And do not go breaking hearts in every village you pass, you leave a heavier one behind.”

Theon has eyes only for Robb, whose lips quiver but make no sound. 

The tread of feet is heard on the cobblestones, and Theon turns to see Talisa approach. She carries in her hand a small bottle.

“It is not customary for a nurse to bid goodbye to a lord, but I know how often you get into scrapes. This ointment will be useful in healing wounds your sword cannot deflect. It will fetch a good price if you decide to sell it.” She hands him the bottle. “Here, as a token of friendship.”

“You consider me a friend?” asks Theon while he stuffs the bottle into his saddlebags.

“Barely, I would rather befriend a mountain bear or a squawking chicken. The King had to convince me with his judgement that there must be some good in you.”

“Aye,” says Robb gruffly. “There is a lot of good in you.”

Theon wonders how to begin to say goodbye to him, if there even was a start or end to such a gesture, when the quick slap of boots on the drawbridge distracts him. 

“Lord Theon!” pipes up Dorrick. “Thank goodness I am not too late, I thought I missed you.” He thrusts a dagger into his hands. “The King himself gave this to me, it will protect you on your path.”

Theon looks at Robb with a grin, and the latter nods and steps forward. He puts a hand on Dorrick’s shoulder. “Theon gave me that dagger, and we give it to you now. It will be yours until it becomes too small for your hand. You will be a good soldier boy, and we would entrust this to no one else.”

“I am not a boy, I am a man,” says Dorrick, pulling his scrawny frame to its full height. 

“That you are,” says Theon with a chuckle and ruffles his hair. 

“Thank you for teaching me to become one.”

“It is not something that can be taught, it is something you grow into one way or another,” says Theon. “You will grow into a proud and merciful commander of an army…”

“Or be a just and wise king of a country,” adds Robb with a smile. 

“I could never!” says Dorrick in bemusement. 

“Then be a decent man that can be trusted…” says Theon 

“And loved…” interjects Robb.

“And one who trusts and loves in return,” finishes Theon.

The young man’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “How do you finish each other's sentences?”

Theon gives a wicked grin. “Trust and love.”

“It is something you will realise for yourself one day, I hope,” says Robb, and Dorrick nods fervently. 

The bugle calls the army to the dining hall for their last meal at the Keep of Capes.

“That is my call to take my leave,” says Theon. He lifts a hand in a salute of goodbye to the rest, and takes a look at the tall stone building where he had had some of the happiest and saddest and greatest times of his life so far. His eyes meet Robb’s for a fraction of the longest second he has ever encountered. Robb grips Theon’s forearm, shakes firmly, and releases it. Theon turns away, feeling as if for the last time. He walks his horse along the drawbridge, and crosses the moat. Robb watches for a moment, but turns away before he could see Theon disappear into the distance.

Robb returns to the entrance and into the courtyard, and finds only his mother remaining, the others returning to their chores or meal. She opens her arms and Robb falls into them. He is not ashamed to let his tears fall. She rubs soothing circles on his back and holds him while his crying subsides. 

“He is gone, mother.”

“Aye, and I would have expected more of you, son.”

“How so?”

“That was a King bidding farewell to a soldier, not a lover opening his arms to let his love take flight. Have a mutual parting, not one lacking closure. Find him before he has gone too far.”

“I cannot reopen a wound that I have sewn shut.”

“Then it will only fester.” Talisa’s voice pierces the gloom. 

Lady Stark turns to her. “Come, Talisa, we shall go into dinner together. In the absence of both my daughters you must take their place. The King has some thinking to do.”

The two women disappear into the shadows, and Robb stands alone with the sound of fading hoof falls in the dark that may only belong in his imagination. 

\------

Skirting the dining hall, Robb returns to his bedchamber and lights a solitary candle. The chilling quiet echoes back to him. He kneels before a chest of drawers, and pulls out the last. In it lay Theon’s kilt, musty from disuse for two weeks. He stands up, dusts it and holds it to his face. Theon’s musky smell still lingers. He steps out of his clothes and dons the kilt. It feels odd on him, like on a wax doll that will never substitute the human source of its likeness. As the last embers die in the fireplace and the candle blows out in a gasping wind, Robb lays down in his lonely bed. Cold and silent and empty once more.

This time, the absence will not be filled.

\------

The lonely baying of a Direwolf startles Robb out of his sleepless paralysis. He ignores it, not in the mood to go tend to Grey Wind. But the howls become louder, and more out of concern that the noise would disturb the others in the Keep than out of personal curiosity, he trudges out on lifeless feet on to the balcony. His breath comes out in white puffs and the bare skin of his arms and torso breaks into goose bumps in the cold night air. Grey Wind falls silent, snout pointed away from the stone wall towards The Spine, tail stiff and eyes sharp.

“Quiet, boy!” says Robb, annoyed.

Grey Wind whines.

Robb frowns. He knows his Direwolf well, and this behaviour clearly indicates that it wants him to follow it. He looks off into the mountain range, the silhouette of which he can make out in the light of the young moon, wondering if Theon was out there somewhere. Grey Wind whines again, and Robb makes a decision. He dashes in, pulls on his tunic, jacket and sword belt and pauses only to put on his boots as he runs back to the balcony. He swings a leg over the battlements, and feels the toes of his boot catch a ledge. Carefully, gripping onto loose stones and strands of ivy, he climbs down the side of the Keep. He is stealthy, and avoids detection from the guards high up on the walls. He drops down on all fours next to Grey Wolf and releases a relieved sigh. 

The Direwolf streaks into the night, and Robb sprints to keep up. The sluggish air within the Keep turns to wind in motion, and his pumping limbs sends fire coursing through his veins. His frown morphs into a wide smile as he comes to the edge of the moat. He pulls out a small boat from under the dock and rows across moon dipped waters swiftly. The physical activity gives him respite from his thoughts, and he feels alive once more as he traverses through the tall grass on the mountain slope. He soon realises that they are heading into the Howling Pass, and he slows into a steady jog, eyes peeled for any signs of danger. Grey Wind trots at his feet, panting. They reach the narrow crack on the rock wall. Robb’s heart skips a beat when he sees a familiar horse tethered to a rock spike, its black coat blended in the dark. Its white eyes widen when it sees the Direwolf. Robb hushes the skittish horse and pats it neck, calming it down before it can make a noise. He snaps his fingers and Grey Wind immediately settles down across the entrance. He sneaks down the gully and into the cave, peering round a shelf rock.

Theon sits cross-legged in a patch of moonlight in the middle of the hollowed out space, letting sand dribble through his fingers as he thinks by himself.

Robb launches at him, his cry of delight meeting Theon’s one of surprise. They roll onto the floor, Robb showering Theon’s face with kisses. They lock in embrace, hands scrambling; neither can get enough of each other. 

“You came!” says Theon, his eyes shining. 

“I was a fool to think I could hold myself back.”

“How did you find me?”

“Grey Wind did. He led me here. He must have found you here.”

Theon chuckles. “That must have been the sounds I heard some time ago… I was worried that a wolf was trying to eat my horse!”

Robb laughs. “I crept up on you without a sound. Turns out I can be stealthy too.”

Theon huffs. His eyes grow sadder and he kisses Robb, and holds for long, as long as he needs to feel connected to his reality and comfort. “I am glad you are here. I could not go on without stopping by here… I do not know why… what happened here was certainly unpleasant.” Robb had made sure his soldiers had cleared out the cave after the battle, and Thobb’s remains had been carted off. Sparkling silvery sand now dusted the floor and no blood smears smudged the walls, and the cave looked like a piece of the moon on Earth as its luminescence filled every nook and cranny and reflected off a thousand shimmering rock surfaces. Theon breathes deeply. “I wished I had a second more to say a word to you, and I wanted to hold my tongue at the same second. I wanted to send a message out to you, but knew not how, and knew not whether that was what I wanted or if it was what you wanted.” His voice trembled. “I am glad you came. I did not dare to dream that you would magically appear somehow. I am not ready to close and shut away what we are yet, I do not know if I ever can…” A tear seeps into existence at the end of his eye and glimmered at the end of his lashes, like a star, mirroring his bright eye. Theon blinked, and the sphere of water shook free and landed on his cheek. It lazily traced a path over his smooth skin, caressing. It paused at the first line of late night stubble. Theon swiped his hand across his face roughly, and flicked the drop on to the sand, where it lay like a crystal for a second before melting away into whiteness. 

Robb’s palms enclose Theon’s face in a cocoon of warmth. “It is alright to cry.” Theon shakes his head. Robb moves Theon’s head to his shoulder and folds his arms around him in a tight embrace. Theon’s claws fistfuls of the soft material on the back Robb’s jacket, his body shuddering. “Let it out,” whispers Robb, and Theon cracks. His tears gush unimpeded, the dam he has carefully built stone by stone every day of his life finally giving way, safe at last in the arms of the one he trusted himself with the most. He pours his soul out in salty rivulets, of all the pain and joy and every droplet of emotion in between that parting from a loved one brings. His world is pulled asunder by forces beyond his control, and he finds release in his tears. Robb carries him through the raging torrents, gentle fingers combing out tangles in his hair, soothing words whispering away the fears in his ear, and loving lips cooling the heat pulsing through his neck. Theon gasps quietly, no more tears left to shed at last. 

“You are wearing my kilt,” he says in a watery voice. “You had it all along.” He smiles through drying tears.

Robb smiles through fresh tears. “Aye. I needed you with me, around me, warming me. I am not ready for us to close ourselves apart either.”

“Then let us not be.” Theon places his cheek against Robb’s, soaked against soaking. “I need you by me, on me, in me.”

Robb stiffens, startled. “Are you sure? We have never…I never was in charge…”

“I want you to,” says Theon adamantly. “If I taught you how to fuck, I want you to show me how you make love.”

Robb hesitates. “You are feeling vulnerable, I do not want to…”

“Take advantage of me?” asks Theon, fiercely. “Trust me, I want this.”

Robb nods. He shifts forward to lay Theon down on his back on the white sand. Robb kneels between Theon’s legs and leans over. He waits for Theon to make a move, and Theon shakes his head with a grin. “Not this time around. You lead.” He pecks a kiss on Robb’s hand. “Do not be nervous.” Robb smiles back, and slowly kisses Theon’s hair, his forehead, his eyes, his nose and finally captures his mouth in a lingering kiss. Robb sits back and cautiously places his hands on the leather jacket over Theon’s chest. Theon smirks and puts his hands behind his head. Robb’s irritation at Theon’s smug aloofness melts at the sights of the latter’s encouraging smile, and Robb unclasps the first buckle under Theon’s jaw. His fingers trace slow lines down his torso as buckle after buckle is hitched free from its fastenings. Robb runs his hand up under Theon’s tunic, each fingertip a spark of fire against icy skin. Theon sits up and sheds his jacket and pulls his tunic over his head, and Robb drinks in his muscular frame glowing like statuesque marble in the moonlight. He pushes Theon back tenderly into the sand, and slides a hand over his crotch. His arousal twitches in greeting. Robb unlaces the front of his trousers, and his hands clamps around Theon’s hardness. Theon writhes and muffles his moans as Robb palms him. Robb’s hot breath splashes over Theon’s neck as he bites down, making hairs stand on end, his other hand pulling onto a clump of Theon’s hair. “Robb,” groans Theon and Robb stops at once. He looks up in concern, “Is everything alright? Do you want me to stop?” Theon grins, “No, but can you go… lower?” Robb nods, his eyes with lust. His lips trace a line down Theon’s neck and to the middle of his chest. His teeth pull at the dusting of downy hair, and his tongue swirls in circles over tingling skin. He kisses a nipple and Theon’s toes curl in pleasure. Beads of sweat waters his skin as Robb leaves a trail of kisses over the hard bumps of muscle over Theon’s stomach, and dips his head lower. He looks up through hair dripping on to his face, and Theon nods, one hand sliding onto the back of Robb’s head and pushing down gently. Robb takes Theon in his mouth. His entire body collapses into one shivering flame in the dark, thrilling through and through his body turning light as air. Theon grunts and sits up, pulling Robb into his arms. “I want to see you,” he whispers in his ear. Robb stands up, quick fingers flying over his clothes, and unburdens himself of extraneous clothing before Theon’s longing gaze. Theon’s eyes glaze over as he takes in the perfect vision glowing before him like an air sprite in the moonbeams. He kneels before Robb, his lips and tongue and fingers making contact over every inch of sensual sensitive skin. They collapse in a whirlpool of heightened pulsating sensations, the waters thick with sudden heat, sudden chill, and sudden silence. Theon grasps Robb’s hand and guides it down between his inner thighs. Robb’s probing fingers find the point of Theon’s pleasure, and Theon clamps his mouth shut. “It is alright to make a sound,” says Robb, patiently. Theon releases pent up burning breath and moans wreck his body as Robb draws closer and in. “I am ready,” he mutters in Robb’s ear. Theon lays back, and Robb braces himself over him once more. Robb looks in his eyes seeking permission for entry and Theon spreads for him in welcome. Quick spurts of movement blend and churn into lasting passion through the echoes of the night. Swirls of fire pour into an icy cavern, and a geyser rises to the starlit sky in an escalating quivering crescendo. Waves and threads of frothy white water burst forth, and the remains of the physical battle of souls settle down in enduring peace as the two lovers lie still and spent in each other’s arms.

\------

“It was a moonlit night the day I walked into your tent and wrapped your hurt little finger,” reminisces Theon as he kisses Robb’s fingers one by one. “And the moon shines above us tonight.”

“It has been one moon cycle since we got together,” says Robb, looking up at the white disk in the circle of night sky above.

“And many sun cycles in between.” 

“Aye.”

Robb watches the contours of Theon’s face stand out in sharp contrast in the black and white light of the night as they lay in a tangle of limbs. He lets his fingers sketch every ripple of toned muscle over the rise and fall of Theon’s chest.

“I have always been envious of your body,” he says, there is no trace of jealousy in his voice.

“I do look spectacular,” says Theon with a smirk, “But I have always been envious of your face. So regal and handsome, men swear and women swoon. I may have a body men crave and women covet, but it is for the taking and not the cherishing. Until you came along.”

Robb blushes.

Theon continues. “I always felt that I wore my beauty on the outside, and you wore yours on the inside.”

Robb rests his head on Theon’s chest and matches his breathing to the others. Theon plays with his hair lazily, enjoying the comfort cradling them. 

“What physical feature of mine do you like the most?” asks Robb.

“Hm…” Theon tugs a lock of hair. “Your eyes.”

“Why?”

“They are a different shade from the rest of the Starks: Blue. Neither your father nor your mother nor your siblings share this wonderful colour, and in my eyes, that makes you special. When I look into them, I know they do not lie. Most men’s eyes are shadowed with deceit, but yours, never, always true and honest. And…” Theon kisses Robb on the top of his head. “I see a sliver of ice in that blue. Clear and sharp and strong, determined to overcome any challenge life throws your way. That is what tells me you are My Grace, the only man worthy of bearing the helm of the King of the North.” He smiles self-consciously. “What do you like about me?”

Robb turns his head to rest his chin on Theon’s chest, looking up at him with love filled blue eyes. “Your teeth.”

Theon’s jaw drops in surprise, then he jams his mouths shut and shakes his head vehemently. Robb smiles softly and kisses him on tightened lips. He works the lips apart, tongue sliding through to caress uneven teeth and gaping spaces in between. He moves his head back, chuckling at Theon’s bewildered expression.

“Why?” asks Theon. “They are the ugliest part of my body.”

“Aesthetically speaking, that may be true in critical eyes. As a child, I was first scared that you might be a monster because your teeth were so odd. I noticed you did not talk much, you did not smile at all. Remember I told you one day that I liked your smile? You began to smile more often after that, and I realised something. You were not blessed with a smile bards will sing of, but that you had a fiery strength inside you that would not stop you because of that. You laughed the loudest at insults at your expense, and soon tuned people over with your jokes and charm and swagger. You did not stand still, you reached and grabbed the adulation you wanted.” He kisses Theon on the jaw. “That takes a lot of courage. And every time is see your teeth, I tell myself that what at first seems like an obstacle can be a stepping stone.”

Theon runs the tip of his tongue along his teeth, as if feeling them for the first time. “I never thought of it in that way. You have opened out my eyes out to something special I will hold in my heart for ever.” His face grows thoughtful. “Do I act out in front of people?”

“You do, sometimes,” says Robb sadly. “I believe that is the only way to win over lesser minds.”

“You are the only one I can be myself with,” says Theon quietly. 

“And you are the only one I can be open with.”

“You are a King. You can only be unguarded with your subjects for some extent. Please do not lock away your feelings if you have no one to tell them if – when – I am not around.”

“I will try.”

“And I will try to be more genuine, though I fear I bow down to becoming whatever people expect of me, depending on who stands before me.”

“These internal wars are no overnight victory.”

Theon laces his fingers through Robb’s. “Neither was our love.”

“Why did you fall in love with me?” asks Robb nervously.

“You were… nice to me.”

“I am nice to everyone, at least, as much as they deserve.”

“You do not understand. I was born and brought up in a world of harsh looks and heated words and hard blows. I came to Winterfell with anger and spite and revenge in my heart. And it seemed right, most people doubted and scorned me as someone who did not belong in the Stark household. Your father could never be a true father, and your mother was distant. But you… you were there by my side, though I gave you no reason to like me. I did not know how to react to someone so good and kind and patient. I may have lashed out, but you only smiled in return.” Theon shrugs. “How can I not be tamed? You were all that I thought I despised, but you showed me that it is not what people seem to be that matters, it is what they are. No one ever showed me even the smallest lick of compassion, and I felt life had kicked me with a giant’s boot, and you were the only one who believed in me and couched me away from all the rest. My shining light, call it whatever you will. You were nice, and I was not, so I fell in love.”

“I am honoured that you have such a high opinion of me.” Robb’s eyes grow wet.

“It is fact,” says Theon gruffly. “Now stop blubbering and tell me why you love me. We all know I am very lovable, and everyone loves the tortured anit-hero, but why?”

“You will not like my answer.”

“I am lying naked with you instead of on a ship miles away out at sea. There is no answer you can give to make me dislike you.”

“Alright, I will speak.” Robb takes a deep breath. “If me being nice made you fall in love with me, you being rude made me fall in love you.”

Theon burst in to laughter so loud that Robb was shaken off his heaving chest. Robb sits cross legged in a huff, and Theon sidles up to him and puts his head on his shoulder.

“Alright, I will not laugh,” says Theon soothingly. “But trust you to love something about me that everyone hates.”

“If you would only let me explain. From the day I was born, my father was proud of me as his heir, my mother was happy she was blessed with a male child as her first, and Winterfell rejoiced for years of prosperity this surely should bring. As I grew up, there were servants to wait me hand and foot. Faces simpered and backs bowed and hands shook mine everywhere I went. I wondered if any of that was real, and there was no one I could ask. I was told in hushed whispers I was honoured to be who I was, and told how to act and who to be. From a young age I took my duties seriously, and I grew weary of all the static and pompous routines of my life. And then you came in with your thunder and icy glares and I was in awe. You shook me up, told me off to my face when I did something wrong or stupid. You did not hesitate to give me a clap on the back if I did well. You held no scruples to who I was. It was not that you did not respect me; it was that you treated me like a real person. You drew me out of my shell, taught me the world was large, and made me smile. You made me realise my privilege, and if I am just and righteous and humble, it is all because you were rude to me the first day we met.”

“I hated myself for what I said that day.”

“Good. Because that Theon was despicable. But that was what I needed to hear, back then. It was necessary for us to grow and change and expand a lot since then, and if we had stayed the same we will not be here together today. I will be a spoilt brat like the boy king Jeoffrey ruling cruelly and selfishly, and you will be a worth for nothing barbarian laying waste to lands.”

“We kept each other steady on the right course, did we not?”

“Aye.” Robb pulls Theon closer. 

“Do you believe that we are born with who we become stamped on our foreheads, or it is the people who we encounter in life that makes us who we are?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I worry if I will revert to the confused and impassioned boy I was when I meet my father, or whether I will remain the honourable man I am when I am with you.”

“I strongly believe that it is not nature that nourishes us, it is nurture. Even though he is your father, I hope my influence is what guides you when you meet him.”

“I hope so too. I fear there is something dark in me that would rise if you are not there to quell it.”

A bugle call echoes through the Howling Pass like the knelling bells of hell. 

“The Keep awakes,” says Robb solemnly. 

“And with it comes the second call for our parting,” Theon replies with equal acceptance.

They stand and dress each other for the last time. With each clasp clicking into place, the finality draws closer.

“I wish I brought a gift with me to give you,” says Robb. “To remember me by when you are gone.”

“There is no need, I will carry the memory of tonight, and the nine years that lead to this dawn.”

“As will I.”

Theon straps on his sword belt. “The time has finally come for goodbye. But first, I release you of any hold I may have on you that might stop you from finding another love. You are a man that needs someone to share his life, and my absence should not be the reason that paralyses you. The Kingdom and war needs you active. I will be fine if you do find someone, and I think there might someone you do find compatible who reads and speaks your same language.”

Robb sighs and caresses Theon’s cheek with a soft glove, their physical contact already broken. “It pains me to agree, but if you will it, so be it. You will never be replaced, keep that in your mind and heart. And in turn, I release you from any bond. Bed any man and women you find on land and sea, you insatiable horny fox.”

Theon chuckles. “They pale in comparison to you, but in your name I will give them a pounding they will never forget.”

Grey wind trots into the cave, looking at them inquiringly. He abruptly leaps onto Theon, knocking him onto the ground. Robb darts forward in alarm, but Grey Wind only covers Theon’s face in happy licks. He pulls the Direwolf off him, and Theon gets up, wiping his face and grinning wide. 

“Told you he was bonded to me too.” Theon lets grey Wind lick at his hand. “That was his goodbye.”

“It is probably because you smell of me now.”

“Aye, after today, there is no inch on me or in me that does not smell of you.”

“One thing I will not miss when you are gone is you fondness for crass sex jokes.”

“Aw, but you are fond of me, and that is all that matters.”

“Aye.”

Theon scratches behind Grey Wind’s ears, and it rolls over for him to scratch its stomach. Theon laughs and obliges. “Remember how cute this fine fellow was when we found him?”

“Not as almost as cute as you were.” The words pass Robb’s lips before he could stop himself. 

Theon’s face goes pink. “And one thing I will not miss about you are your cheesy compliments.”

They share a laugh, and embrace. “Farewell, brother of mine,” they whisper in each other’s ears, hold for as long as it takes for the first rays of the morning sun to slant into the cave on the awakening air. They break apart. They look at each other in silent communication. With visible effort, Theon breaks their ocular connection and lets his feet bear him away. Robb is caught in a fraught thoughtless pause before his hurtles himself in the other’s direction and gives one last embrace. Theon allows the ache in his chest ease and cease for a pleasing moment before gently releasing the other’s arms from around him. Robb lets his arms fall, and takes a step back. Theon turns to him slowly.

“Um…” says Robb shyly, looking the exact image of when he approached for the first time the sulky strange boy his father brought home from war nearly a decade ago.

“Stop choking on your own tongue, you goof,” says Theon and pulls him into a rough hug. “From this day, I can tell we are going to stick by each other, until my last day!” These were the exact same words and actions he greeted Robb with for the first time. Back then, the words had been sarcastic, even derisive, but now he meant it. 

Much has changed between them in the years that passed. 

“I do not know what to say.” Robb ends their embrace a moment too early. 

“Then do not.”

“Farewell, Theon, my love.”

“Farewell, Robb, My Grace.”

A parting beautiful in its simplicity, like the sun that bids farewell to the sky as the moon ascends, like the sea kissing goodbye to the sand as the wave churns back into the sea. But the sun rises another day, and the wave crashes back onto the shore. Will they meet again?

Theon heads out of the cave, vaults onto his horse and rides off with the wind. Robb climbs up to the hole on the roof of the cave, and stands on the top of the mountain, eyes scanning for a horseman down below. 

Theon gallops up a small grassy hill and looks back to The Spine. He sees Robb standing tall and prominent with the rising sun. Robb looks down and spots him. Theon urges his horse to rear up on its back legs, and raises his sword in farewell above his head. Robb smiles and raises his own sword in salute. He wants to shout something for the world to hear, for Theon to know the depth of his love. But what? His mind refuses to conjure up a word.

“Inamoratu!” shouts Theon, his voice carried strong on the breeze to Robb’s waiting ears.

“Inamoratu!” shouts Robb back, his voice loud to fill hill and vale.

Theon waves his sword for one last time, and rides on. Robb watches him until he is a black dot in the horizon, and turns back North towards the Keep. The army assembles before it, ready for the first day of the March. Life moves on as steady as the beat of a thousand feet. Robb whistles for Grey Wind, and walks down the grassy path. He hopes and wishes and dreams that he and Theon might meet again, and that there will be no shadow of a parting between them thereafter. 

But black ravens fill the sky with omens of death and betrayal and change of heart, and one is a fool to hold onto hope, wishes are seldom said to come true and dreams are best left behind on the pillow once the harsh light of day drives away the concealing night. That, too, is the way of life. Robb walks away knowing that he is letting a vigorous part of him walks away from him, and he hopes the solemn parts left behind will help him carry on the path he judges to be in the right. Theon leaves knowing that he is leaving behind a thoughtful part of him behind, and he hopes the discord he carries with him will guide him on the right path. The good and bad and ugly and beautiful parts of themselves had crossed paths, merged to a wondrous but fleeting whole, and now must dissolve as the rippling wake of the setting sun sinking in a stirred sea. But a lonely moon will shine rise and shed its soothing veil on calm waters, and the two parted hearts may or may not find solace at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do comment and let me know what you feel!


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